itizen himself, who is by no means a beautiful man. Indeed, they
are all portrayed; all the privates of this distinguished Regiment are,
if anybody cared to look at them--Redivanoff from Moscow seems of
far better bone than Kirkman, though still more stolid of aspect. One
Hohmann, a born Prussian, was so tall, you could not, though yourself
tall, touch his bare crown with your hand; August the Strong of Poland
tried, on one occasion, and could not. Before Hohmann turned up, there
had been "Jonas the Norwegian Blacksmith,", also a dreadfully tall
monster. Giant "Macdoll,"--who was to be married, no consent asked on
EITHER side, to the tall young woman, which latter turned out to be a
decrepit OLD woman (all Jest-Books know the myth),--he also was an Irish
Giant; his name probably M'Dowal. [Forster, _ Preussens Helden im Krieg
und Frieden_ (Berlin, l848), i. 531; no date to the story, no evidence
what grain of truth may be in it.] This Hohmann was now FLUGELMANN
("fugleman" as we have named it, leader of the file), the Tallest of the
Regiment, a very mountain of pipe-clayed flesh and bone.

Here, in reference to one other of those poor Giants, is an Anecdote
from Fassmann (who is very full on this subject of the Giants; abstruse
Historical Fassmann, often painfully cited by us): a most small
Anecdote, but then an indisputably certain one;--which brings back to
us, in a strange way, the vanished Time and its populations; as the
poorest authentic wooden lucifer may do, kindling suddenly, and'
peopling the void Night for moments, to the seeing eye!--

Fassmann, a very dark German literary man, in obsolete costume and
garniture, how living or what doing we cannot guess, found himself at
Paris, gazing about, in the year 1713; where, among other things, the
Fair of St. Germain was going on. Loud, large Fair of St. Germain,
"which lasts from Candlemas to the Monday before Easter;" and Fassmann
one day took a walk of contemplation through the same. Much noise,
gesticulation, little meaning. Show-booths, temporary theatres,
merry-andrews, sleight-of-hand men; and a vast public, drinking,
dancing, gambling, flirting, as its wont is. Nothing new for us there;
new only that it all lies five generations from us now. Did "the Old
Pretender," who was then in his expectant period, in this same village
of St. Germain, see it too, as Fassmann did? And Louis XIV., he is at
Versailles; drooping fast, very dull to his Maintenon. And our littl