misery, in despair, almost in madness, I lost my faith in God;—perhaps because I never had the right kind of faith, because I only believed that he was great and just, without believing that he was my God. I fainted utterly. I thought either that he was not, or that there was with him no love, no compassion. I thought his pitiless hand was sweeping us all from the face of the earth, because he was angry with Napoleon. I thought he was like the great fire in Moscow, which burned, blazed, destroyed, unchecked by human efforts, unstayed by human prayers. May he forgive me! To-night I can believe in his forgiveness and in his divine compassion. If the man who was our enemy—whose land we tried to ruin, upon whom we heaped every insult, every injury in our power—can pity and forgive us, surely the God who made him will not be found less merciful than he! Surely none but that God could so have softened the proud heart of the Czar; and perhaps he has done it just to show that even for those who have sinned deeply, wilfully, like me, there is forgiveness with Him. Therefore let us hope in the Lord; for with the Lord there is mercy, and with him is plenteous redemption."
There were murmurs of assent from the pale lips of many of the sufferers around him; and Pontet observed, with a thoughtful air, "The lad speaks well; and perhaps what he says may be true. Who knows?"[1]
- ↑ All that is told in this and the succeeding chapter about the ministrations of Alexander to the French prisoners is strictly and circumstantially true. Sir Archibald Alison, who well observes that Alexander terminated "a campaign of unexampled danger and glory by deeds of unprecedented mercy," had the details from the Emperor's own physicians, Wylie and Crichton, his assistants in the noble work. There are many other sources of information from which interesting anecdotes may be gleaned. The story of the dying Spaniard is one of these. Alexander not only took care to forward his letter, but sought out all the other Spanish prisoners, clothed them, and sent them home at his own expense. He described his visit to the Convent of St. Basil to a friend in these words:—"I was there in the evening: a single lamp illumined those profound vaults, beneath which piles of corpses had been heaped almost as high as the walls. I cannot express the horror with which I was penetrated when amongst the dead bodies I saw creatures moving who were yet alive." On his way to Vilna, he took up in his own sledge starving French soldiers whom he met with, and brought them to those whom he could trust to take care of them, leaving money to supply their wants.
