sian strongholds disaster was blackened by
disgrace. Held by timid old men or nerveless pedants, they scarcely
waited for a vigorous attack. A few cannon-shots, or even a
demonstration of cavalry, generally brought out the white flag. In
quick succession, Spandau, Stettin, Kuestrin, Magdeburg, and Hameln
opened their gates, the governor of the last-named being mainly
concerned about securing his future retiring pension from the French
as soon as Hanover passed into their keeping.

Amidst these shameful surrenders the capital fell into the hands of
Davoust (October 25th). Varnhagen von Ense had described his mingled
surprise and admiration at seeing those "lively, impudent,
mean-looking little fellows," who had beaten the splendid soldiers
trained in the school of Frederick the Great. His wonder was natural;
but all who looked beneath the surface well knew that Prussia was
overthrown before the first shot was fired. She was the victim of a
deadening barrack routine, of official apathy or corruption, and of a
degrading policy which dulled the enthusiasm of her sons.

Thirteen days after the great battle, Napoleon himself entered Berlin
in triumph. It was the first time that he allowed himself a victor's
privilege, and no pains were spared to impress the imagination of
mankind by a parade of his choicest troops. First came the foot
grenadiers and chasseurs of the Imperial Guard: behind the central
group marched other squadrons and battalions of these veterans,
already famed as the doughtiest fighters of their age. In their midst
came the mind of this military machine--Napoleon, accompanied by three
Marshals and a brilliant staff. Among them men noted the plain,
soldierlike Berthier, the ever trusty and methodical chief of the
staff. At his side rode Davoust, whose round and placid face gave
little promise of his rapid rush to the front rank among the French
paladins. There too was the tall, handsome, threatening form of
Augereau, whose services at Jena, meritorious as they were, scarcely
maintained his fame at the high level to which it soared at
Castiglione. Then came Napoleon's favourite aide-de-camp, Duroc, a
short, stern, war-hardened man, well known in Berlin, where twice he
had sought to rivet close the bonds of the French alliance.

Above all, the gaze of the awe-struck crowd was fixed on the figure of
the chief, now grown to the roundness of robust health amidst toils
that would have worn most men to a shadow; a