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Blackwood´s Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 80




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Hersteller:Forgotten Books (Author, Unknown)
Stand:2015-08-04 03:50:33

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Excerpt from Blackwood´s Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 80: July December, 1856 But in the memory of every survivor there will ever remain a dark corner devoted to the squalid and spectral phantasmagoria of the wintry siege; and at the Open Sesame of the words "Camp before Sebastopol," they will rise to his mental vision chill and ghastly, and full of fearful interest, even in remotest old age. First among them will unroll itself that which daily met his eye - a wilderness of mud overhung by a low sky, with the space between filled by a piercing northern blast, before which the rags of the tents flutter and the poles rattle in their earthy sockets. Before the icy breath of the wind drifts with uncertain steps a soldier, whom but for the buttons on his great-coat and the rusted musket, you might take for a famished mendicant. He stoops stiffly beneath the opening of his tent, and disappears for a moment; it is to exchange his musket for a pick-axe. He is weary, and longs for sleep; but he is numb with the long nights watching in the trenches, and longs, too, for some warm food and drink to send a ray of heat through his shivering frame before he creeps beneath his blanket. The food is there, scanty and raw, but not the fuel. The ground surrounding his camp is not only bare of twigs, but the roots have everywhere been sought with a scrutiny keener than that of the gold-seeker, and he goes forth to search at a distance. As he plods on, everything around tells of famine and desolation - everything tells him to despair - the skeletons, the half-buried carcasses, the open graves. Snow, which fell last night, lying in the bottom of these graves, shows they were dug yesterday in certain anticipation of victims. What matter if he fill one himself, and so end the struggle and weariness? - what matter if cold and starvation soon do their work? - or, better still, if he meet to-night some friendly bullet in the trenches? Of all the dreary scenes, that which the soldier turns to with least repugnance is the Trenches - the scene of his fame as well as his sufferings, where he earned a claim, not only to his country´s sympathy, but to her applause. In the advanced trench he has, through his loophole of sandbags, exchanged shots all day with the opposing riflemen, and the excitement of combat has prevented him from feeling the full evils of cold and wet; but night has put an end to the desultory duel of musketry, and he is laid under the parapet, seeking, with his back against the cold wet earth, some shelter from the wind that issues as from caverns of ice out of the bleak north. His last look over the parapet at nightfall showed the Redan rising before him a black silent mound; on his right lies the Malakoff, black and silent too; yet in a moment they may become, as they often suddenly become, volcanoes darting flame. But to-night they are quiet; only an occasional gun on the left throws a shot across the French lines; - to-night he will yield to soft drowsy thoughts of his warm home. What a paradise it seems! - never did he half appreciate its charms till now. Is it possible there are in the world people so fortunate as to possess warm clothing, cheerful firesides, neat-spread tables, plentiful food? - are there really such things as home faces? On such pleasant themes he tries to think steadily, - and could succeed, but for the rain on his face distracting his thoughts. Presently, as he dozes, the images become more real, the faces come without effort, the scene is furnished with forgotten details, the fireside glows strange that it does not warm him! is the fuel frozen - is the flame but a glitter? He tells the friends of his dream how he had been lately almost despairing of ever seeing them again - how he has suffered since they parted - but now they will be merry! - A sound as of thunder wakes him; as, still half dreaming, he looks up, the comrade at his side, whose


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