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BENTLEY'S 


MISCELLANY. 


jl3 
VOL.  XXIII. 


LONDON: 

RICHARD     BENTLEY, 
NEW  BURLINGTON  STREET. 
1848. 


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V 


t;if:  18  'iby.j 


LONDON : 

Printed  by  8.  &  J.  Bbntlbt,  Wilson,  and  Plry, 

Bmgor  Hgu«e,  Sho«  Lane. 


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CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Lord  Hardinge,  mud  the  recent  Victories  in  India,  \  .  .        1 

Origin  of  the  Story  of  Bluebeard,    .  I   By  Dr.  W,  C.        136 

The  late  Isaac  D^Israeli,  Esq.  and  the  Genius  off        Taylor, 

Judaism,    ....  J     .  .  .    919 

The  Search  after  Truth,         .  .  .  • 

Lore's  Deaertion,  a  melancholy  Fact,  \  •  .  .  •  .    124 

The  Child  of  Genius,  ......         249 

The  Return  of  the  Birds,  .        •     By  Alfred  Crowquill,  .    374 

The  Three  Nuns^  .     .  .  .448 

The  Fairy  Cap      .  .       '  .  .  .682 

The  Country  Towns  and  Inns  of  France,  )      «„  ,  tuo«.^i  11,  143 

A  Pipe  with  the  Dutchmen,         .  i     isy  J.  Mar>eJ,  226,417 

Psara  ;  a  Narratire  of  Scenes  and  Adventures  on  the  Banks  of  the 

Amazon,  by  J.  £.  Warren,  .  17,  159,  239,  347,  484 

An  Old  Man's  Recollections  of  ihe  Pastoral  Cantons  of  Switzerland. 

£dited  by  Mrs.  Percy  Sinnett,  .  .  .  85, 366 

G^Sf  S'lfiS:  "  ^^:^^'':  \     Bj  M».  Percy  Sinnett,  J|J 

The  Lucky  Ghrocer,  by  Abraham  Elder,    ....  13 

Fetes  at  Madrid, — ^The  Montpensier  Marriage,  .44 

The  Six  dedsive  Battles  of  the  World ;  by  Professor  Creasy  :— 

I.  Battle  of  Marathon,       ......      54 

II.  Defeat  of  the  Athenians  at  Syracuse,  .  125 

III.  The  Metaurus,  ......    250 

IV.  Arminius's  Victory  over  the  Roman  Legions  under  Varus,    .    384 

V.  Battle  of  Tours,  .  .  .  .  .524 

VI.  Battle  of  Valmy    ......  623 

Visit  to  his  Hifl^ess  Rajah  Brooke,  at  Sarawak,  by  Peter  M'Quhae,  65 

A  New  Year's  Eve,          .             >       n^  H    r  iviiiilina-       •           •  '^^ 

The  Old  Man  and  his  Guests,       J       By  H.  J.  Whithng,  ^^ 

Career  of  the  Hero  of  Acre,  .74 

Captain  Spike :  or.  The  Isleto  of  the  Gulf;  bv  J.  F.  Cooper,  78,  192,  375 
My  Birth-day  Dream,  by  Edward  Keneaiy,  LL.B.  .88 

Government  Plan  of  Defence  for  the  Country,  by  J.  A.  St.  John,  .  89 
A  Visit  to  the  Haunt  of  a  Poetess,  >  By  the  Author  of  ''  Pad-  102 
Difficulties  in  a  Tour  to  Wiesbaden,    )         diana,"    .  .185 

The  Reverie  of  Love,        "]  .....  110 

The  Water-Lily,  V    By  Cuthbert  Bede,  .114 

The  Praises  of  Colonos,    J  .  •  .  .  639 

A  Ramble  alonff  the  old  Kentish  Road  from  Canterbury  to  London,  111,  266 
Memoir  of  BeeUioven,  by  Miss  Thomasina  Ross,  .  .115 

Song, 124 

Characteristics  of  the  Poet  Gray,  by  E.Jesse,       ...  133 

Summer  Sketches  in  Switzerland,  by  Miss  Costello,     •  150,  258 

What  Tom  Prinffle  did  with  a  £100  Note,  ...  167 

The  Heiress  of  Budowa,  a  Tale  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War,     .  .174 

What  can  Sorrow  do?  ......  191 

The  Postman,  by  H.  R.  Addison,  .....    201 

The  Two  Pigs,  a  Swinish  Colloquy,  by  W.  E.  Burton,      .  .  216 

Anne  Bdeyn  and  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  ....    233 

Sir  Magnus  and  the  Sea-witch,      .....  246 

The  Two  Funerak  of  Napoleon,  '     •  i     n^  B^Km^  Pno«.»o      «'0 

Rattery  Brown;  or, The  Privateer's  Carousal,  i  "^  '^^^^  Postans,  ^^^ 
*  Hoax  of  the  Shakspeare  Birth-house,  and  Relic  Trade  at  Stratford  on 

Avon,  by  a  Warwickshire  Man,       ....  279 

Mrs.  Alfred  Augustus  Potts;  a  Tale  of  the  Influenza,  by  Mrs.  Frank 

Elliott,      ........    289 

Visits,  Dinners,  and  Evenings,  at  the  Quai  I^Orsay,  and  at  Neuilly,      297 


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IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Yankee  amongst  the  MermaidSy  by  a  Cape  Codder,  .  .    303 

St.  George  and  the  Dragon.    The  true  Tale  divested  of  its  tradi- 
tional Fibs,  by  Percy  Cruikshank,  .  .  .311 
Aliwal,  and  Sir  Harry  Smithy  by  Charles  Whitehead,       .            .  317 
The  Minstrel's  Curse^     .......    321 

Literanr  Notices,     .......  393 

Kms  Mob ;  the  last  Days  of  the  French  Monarchy,  by  Mrs.  Romer,       325 
Kirdjali,  the  Bulgarian  bandit.    A  Tale  by  Thomas  Shaw,  .    327 

"  Are  there  those  that  read  the  future  ?"  by  the  Author  of  '*  The  Ex- 
periences of  a  Gaol  Chaplain,"         ....    340,  465 

The  Rise  and  Fall  of  Masaniello,  by  the  Author  of  *'  The  Heiress  of 

Budowa,"  .    i        .      .      .  .  .  .352 

Narrative  of  the  Wreck  of  the  Archduke  Charles,  by  a  Naval  Officer,    392 
The  eventful  Davs  of  February  1848,  in  Paris,  by  an  American  Lady,    408 
Scenes  from  the  last  French  Ilevolution,  1  .  .  .  422 

Republican  Clubs  in  Paris  in  1848,      .     V    By  the  Fi&neur  in  Paris,    505 
Republican  Manners,         .  .  j  ...  542 

Prince  Metternich,  .......    431 

The  Career  of  M.  Guizot,  .      I      -o^  To«i^  xu^^a  *^ 

France  and  her  National  AssembUes,  5      ^^  ''^^^  ^^^"^^  «15 

The  Isles  of  the  Blest,    .  .  .  .  .455 

Literary  Statistics  of  France  for  Fifteen  Yean,     .  .  .  456 

Robert  £mmett  and  Arthur  Aylmer ;  or,  Dublin  in  1803.    By  the 

Author  of  "Stories  of  Waterloo,"  .  .  .  .     470,551 

The  Hospital  of  the^  San  Spirito  at  Rome,  a  Narrative  of  Facts  ;  by 

E.  V.  Rippingille, 477 

Charles  Edward  Stuart ;  or.  Vicissitudes  in  the  Life  of  a  Royal  Exile ; 
by  the  Author  of  ''  The  Military  Career  of  the  Earl  of  Peter* 

borough,"  . 492 

Welcome,  sweet  May !    .  .  .514 

Some  Chapters  of  the  Life  of  an  Old  Politician,     .  .  515 

Biographical  Sketch  of  L.  E.  L.  .  .  .  .532 

The  Legend  of  fair  Agnes,  from  the  Danish  of  Ochlenschldger,       .        535 
Gaetano  Donizetti,  .......    537 

Memoirs  and  Anecdotes  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  559 

Notes  of  an  Excursion  from  Lisbon  to  Andalusia  and  to  the  Coast  of 

Morocco,  by  Prince  Lowenstein  ....     568 

The  Career  of  Louis  Philippe  as  a  Sovereign  .  .  590 

A  Journey  from  Shiraz  to  the  Persian  Gulf,  with  an  Account  of  Gaaelle- 
Hunting  on  the  Plain  of  Bushire,  by  the  Hon.  Charies  Stuart 
Savile       ,.,..,.,    696 
She 's  gone  to  Bath,  bv  Greensleeves  ....  605 

The  German's  Fatherland  ....  .634 

Danish  Seaman's  Song        ......  640 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Portrait  of  the  Right  Hon.  Viscount  Hardinge, 

The  lucky  Grocer,     ..... 

Portrait  of  Beethoven,     .  .  . 

Tom  Pringle  requested  to  keep  his  hands  to  himself. 

Portrait  of  Isaac  D*lsraeli^  Esq. 

The  Yankee  amongst  the  Mermaijds, 

Portrait  of  Major-general  Sir  Harry  G.  W.  Smith,  Bart.  G.  C. 

„  Mons.  de  Lamartine, 

,,  Mons.  Guizot,  .... 

„  Prince  Metternich, 

„         L.  E.  L.,       . 

„  Donizetti  .... 

„  Mirabeau      ..... 


1 

31 

.     115 

167 

.     219 

303 

B.         .     317 

32S 

.     4«5 

431 

.     532 

537 

.     615 


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"^^-y-^'C^yP-t'   .^xrv/vt'/^'/'X.     './^  :■'.'''■>?. ■/.(■f/-. 


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BENTLEY'S  MISCELLANY. 


LORD  HARDINGE,  AND  THE  RECENT  VICTORIES 
IN  INDIA. 

BT  W.  C.   TAYLOR,   LL.  D. 
WITH   A   POnTBAIT,  FBOM  A  PICTURB   BY   ROBS. 

Hbnry,  Viscount  Hardinge,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of 
the  companions  of  the  immortal  Wellington,  is  the  grandson  of  Ni- 
cholas Hardinge,  long  the  chief  clerk  to  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  eminently  distinguished  for  his  attainments  in  constitutional  law. 
His  father  was  the  late  Rev.  Henry  Hardinge,  rector  of  Stanhope, 
Durham,  a  clergyman  highly  respected  for  his  unaffected  piety  and 
benevolence.  As  Henry  was  a  younger  son  advantage  was  taken  of 
his  family  connections  to  obtain  him  a  commission  in  the  army  at  a 
very  early  age.  But,  notwithstanding  the  temptations  that  beset 
▼oath  under  such  circumstances,  he  devoted  himself  earnestly  to 
learn  the  duties  of  his  profession,  and  acquired  such  proficiency  that 
he  soon  attracted  the  favourable  notice  of  his  superiors.  His  name 
was  first  brought  prominently  before  the  public  in  connection  with 
that  of  the  lamented  General  Sir  John  Moore,  on  whose  staff  he 
served  during  the  memorable  campaign  which  ended  in  the  disas- 
trous retreat  to  Corunna,  and  the  glorious  victory  which  threw 
a  gleam  of  brilliancy  over  the  close  of  a  period  of  loss  and  suffering. 
Captain  Hardinge  was  standing  near  Sir  John  Moore  when  that  ge- 
neral was  struck  by  a  cannon-shot.  It  was  to  Hardinge,  who  at- 
tempted to  remove  his  sword,  that  the  dying  hero  addressed  the 
energetic  words, ''  It  is  as  well  as  it  is ;  I  had  rather  it  should  go  out 
of  the  field  with  me;"  to  the  same  gentleman,  and  to  Col.  Anderson, 
Sir  John  Moore  expressed  his  satisfaction  at  falling  as  became  a  sol- 
dier on  the  field  of  victory,  and  his  pathetic  hopes  that  his  country 
would  do  him  justice. 

After  the  death  of  Sir  John  Moore,  Captain  Hardinge  became 
still  more  intimately  connected  with  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley — the  im- 
mortal Wellington.  He  served  under  him  during  the  whole  of  the 
peninsular  war,  and  at  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  where  Sir  Hennr 
Hardinge,  who  had  received  the  order  of  the  Bath  for  his  meritori- 
ous career  in  Spain,  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  an  arm.  To  write 
the  history  of  tnis  portion  of  Sir  Henry  Hardinge's  military  career, 
would  be  merely  to  repeat  the  narrative  of  campaigns  which  are  or 
ought  to  be  familiar  to  every  Englishman.  During  the  entire 
period  Sir  Henry  was  so  identified  with  his  illustrious  chief  that  it 
is  scarcely  possible  to  dissever  his  achievements  from  those  of  Wel- 
lington. 

Soon  after  the  conclusion  of  the  war  (Nov.  1821),  Sir  Henry 
Hardinge  married  Lady  Emily  Vane,  daughter  of  Robert,  the  first 
Marquis  of  Londonderry,  and  relict  of  John  James,  Esq.  About 
the  same  time  he  entered  into  political  life,  and  was  known  as  the 
sincere  friend  rather  than  the  partisan  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 

VOL.   XZIII.  B 


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2  LORD   HAEDINGE. 

He  has  held  the  offices  of  clerk  of  the  ordnance  and  secretary- at- war ^ 
he  was  also  during  a  brief  but  a  very  troubled  and  important  period, 
secretary  for  Ireland.  In  this  last-named  post  he  displayed  admi- 
nistrative talents  of  the  highest  order ;  uniting  to  firmness  of  pur- 
pose the  most  conciliatorv  habits  and  demeanour,  so  that  he  won  not 
merely  the  respect  but  the  regard  of  his  most  inveterate  political 
opponents.  It  was  for  these  qualities  that  he  was  selected  to  fill  the 
high  office  of  governor-general  of  India  at  probably  the  most  critical 
period  in  the  history  of  our  empire  in  that  country  which  has  occur* 
red  since  the  days  of  Warren  Hastings. 

So  very  little  of  the  real  sUte  of  India  is  known  to  the  general 
public,  and  particularly  of  the  relations  between  the  British  govern- 
ment and  the  independent  native  powers,  that  it  will  probably  be 
no  unacceptable  service  if  we  briefly  state  the  rise  and  progress  of  the 
Sikhs  from  their  first  appearance  as  a  sect  to  the  time  when  they 
ventured  to  compete  with  the  British  for  supremacy  over  India. 

The  Sikhs  first  appeared  about  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury as  a  sect  professing  principles  of  peace  and  submission,  not  un- 
like those  of  the  people  called  quakers ;  their  tenets  were  a  mixture 
of  Hindooism  and  Mohammedanism,  and  exposed  them  to  the  per- 
secutions of  the  bigots  of  both  these  creeds,  in  the  later  age  of  the 
empire  of  Delhi  these  persecutions  were  so  severe  that  the  patience 
of  the  Sikhs  was  worn  out ;  they  took  up  arms  in  their  own  defence, 
and  very  soon  rivalled  their  oppressors  themselves  in  violence  and 
cruelty.  As  the  great  Mogul  empire  crumbled  to  pieces,  the  parts 
of  which  it  had  been  composed  began  to  assume  the  various  K>rm8 
of  barbarous  independence ;  the  Sikhs  grouped  under  many  differ- 
ent leaders,  formed  a  confederation  of  chieftaincies  called  Misuls  in 
the  country,  which,  from  being  watered  by  the  five  branches  of  the 
Indus,  bears  the  name  of  the  Punj-db  or  "  land  of  five  waters ;"  some 
other  Misuls  were  established  on  the  east  side  of  the  Sutlej,  who 
were  sometimes  in  alliance  with  the  chiefs  of  the  Punj-ab,  but  who 
also  sometimes  formed  a  confederacy  of  their  own. 

About  the  commencement  of  the  present  century  the  Sikhs  of  the 
Punj-^b  were  united  into  one  monarchy  by  Runjeet  Singh,  one  of 
the  most  able  and  enlightened  despots  who  has  appeared  in  modem 
Asia.  His  monarchy  was  called  the  kingdom  of  Lahore,  from  the 
name  of  its  capital,  but  it  also  retained  its  geographical  name  of  the 
Punj'db.  Having  established  his  power  firmly  at  the  west  side  of 
the  Sutlej,  Runjeet  Singh  cast  a  covetous  eye  on  the  possessions  of 
the  Sikhs  at  the  eastern  side  of  the  river;  but  these  had  in  the 
meantime  been  taken  under  the  protection  of  the  British,  and  Run- 
jeet could  only  gratify  his  ambition  at  the  hazard  of  a  perilous  war. 
The  recent  overthrow  of  the  great  Mahratta  powers  by  the  English 
arms  quite  daunted  him,  and  he  entered  into  a  treaty  with  the  Bri« 
tish  authorities  on  terras  mutually  advantageous  to  both  parties. 

One  of  the  most  common  calumnies  against  the  British  adminis- 
tration in  India  is  that  ambition  has  ever  been  its  chief  motive,  and 
that  it  has  sought  by  secret,  and  not  very  honourable  means,  to  sap 
and  weaken  the  strength  of  native  states  in  order  to  render  them 
easy  of  conquest.  The  course  of  policy  pursued  towards  Runjeet 
Singh  is  a  triumphant  refutation  of  this  libel.  Every  possible  aid 
was  given  him  in  consolidating  and  strengthening  his  kingdom  at 
Lahore ;  he  was  encouraged  to  introduce  discipline  into  his  army. 


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LORD  HARDINGE.  3 

and  order  into  his  government.  It  was  the  object  of  the  English  to 
raise  up  a  strong  native  state  on  the  north-western  frontier^  which  in 
past  ages  had  been  the  high-road  for  the  plunderers  and  conquerors 
of  Hindostan. 

Runjeet  Singh  had  acuteness  to  discover  the  vast  superiority 
which  troops  derived  from  European  discipline ;  he,  therefore,  en- 
gaged in  his  service  several  officers  whom  the  downfall  of  Napoleon 
bad  left  destitute  of  employment ;  several  of  these  were  soldiers  of 
great  merit,  and,  under  their  training,  the  Sikhs  became  if  not  equal 
to  oar  sepoy  regiments,  infinitely  superior  to  the  rude  militia  of  the 
native  powers. 

Restricted  by  his  dread  of  British  power  from  seeking  an  exten- 
sion of  dominion  eastwards,  Runjeet  Singh  turned  his  arms  north- 
wards and  westwards,  taking  advantage  of  the  distracted  condition 
of  Afghanistan  to  wrest  from  that  monarchy  some  of  its  fairest  pro- 
vinces, including  the  beautiful  vale  of  Cashmere,  whose  name  is  so 
celebrated  in  oriental  poe^. 

We  do  not  believe  that  Runjeet  Singh  ever  entertained  a  hope  of 
a  time  arriving  when  his  armies  would  be  sufficiently  organised  to 
meet  a  British  force  in  the  field,  and  enable  him  to  contend  for  su- 
premacy in  India ;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  such  romantic  visions  - 
floated  before  the  imagination  of  some  of  his  numerous  sons,  many 
of  his  nobles,  and  the  greater  part  of  his  army.  Such  men  as 
Allard,  Ventura,  Aventabile,  and  the  Europeans  of  high  character, 
who  had  entered  his  service,  laughed  such  dreams  to  scorn ;  but 
they  were  encouraged  by  less  scrupulous  adventurers,  who  brought 
with  them  to  Asia  that  vulgar  spite  with  which  the  memory  of 
Waterloo  has  filled  certain  classes  of  Frenchmen,  and  sufficient  evi- 
dence has  oozed  out  to  show  that  Runjeet  Singh's  friendship  for  the 
English— the  sincerity  of  which  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt — was 
not  shared  by  all  the  members  of  his  court. 

Our  space  does  not  allow  us  to  enter  into  any  detail  on  the  cam- 
paigns of  Afghanistan ;  we  can  only  say  that  in  this  war  the  Sikhs 
acted  as  allies  of  the  English,  but  that^  with  the  single  exception  of 
the  Maha-rajah  Runjeet  Singh,  there  was  hardly  one  of  the  Sikh 
aathorities  sincerely  disposed  to  afford  us  honest  co-operation.  The 
disasters  of  Cabul  followed;  they  were  calamitous  in  themselves, 
hot  they  were  infinitely  worse  in  their  moral  effect  by  weakening  the 
belief  in  the  irresistible  prowess  of  the  British,  which  had  spread 
throughout  Asia. 

The  death  of  Runjeet  Singh  let  loose  all  the  bad  passions  and 
jealousies  of  the  Sikhs,  which  his  iron  rule  had  repressed ;  but  for- 
tunately the  distractions  of  a  doubtful  succession  prevented  hatred 
of  the  English  from  becoming  a  predominant  passion,  until  the 
heroes  of  Jelallabad  had  been  relieved,  and  ample  vengeance  taken 
for  the  iniuries  received  at  Cabul. 

We  believe  that  the  hesitation  for  which  Lord  EUenborough  has 
been  too  severely  censured,  arose  from  a  well-grounded  fear,  that,  if 
€kneral  Pollock  too  speedily  advanced  tm  relieve  Sir  Robert  Sale, 
the  doubtful  allies  in  nis  rear  and  ,on  his  flank  might  prove  to  be 
dangerous  enemies. 

I^rd  Ellenborough's  administration  in  India  was  marked  by  the 
conquest  of  Sdnde,  an  achievement  of  doubtful  policy  and  an  acqui- 
sition of  very  questionable  value.     This,  however,  was  not  the  only 


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4  LORD   HARDINOE. 

point  at  issue  between  his  lordship  and  the  Court  of  Directors.  It 
was  believed  in  Leadenhall  Street  that  Lord  Ellenborough  had  been 
seized  with  an  expensive  passion  for  military  glory,  and  the  pro- 
prietors^ with  great  unanimity^  urged  that  he  should  be  recalled.  A 
civilian  had  been  found  anxious  to  provoke  war;  and  this  seems  to 
have  suggested  the  opinion  that  a  warrior  of  established  fame  would 
be  the  best  suited  to  support  with  firmness  the  policy  of  peace. 

Few  appointments  have  been  generally  more  satismctory  than  that 
of  Sir  Henry  Hardinge  to  the  government  of  India  in  1845.  It  was 
approved  unanimously  by  the  Court  of  Directors,  and  it  was  not  less 
loudly  praised  by  the  journals  in  opposition  than  by  those  which 
were  supposed  to  be  under  the  influence  of  the  ministry.  His  cha* 
racter  as  a  statesman  was  as  well  established  as  his  fame  as  a  soldier. 
Though  a  conservative  in  politics,  he  was  known  to  be  a  friend  to 
the  progressive  improvement  of  humanity,  and  particularly  to  the 
extension  of  sound  education  and  the  diffusion  of  useful  knowledge. 
At  the  time  of  his  appointment,  no  one  believed  that  there  was  the 
slightest  danger  of  renewed  hostilities  in  India.  The  Affghans  were 
believed,  and  with  truth,  to  have  received  too  impressive  a  lesson  to 
provoke  British  vengeance  too  hastily ;  Scinde,  if  not  a  profitable, 
seemed  a  very  secure  possession ;  and  there  seemed  to  be  almost 
perfect  tranquillity  from  the  Himalayas  to  Cape  Comorin.  Sir 
Henry  Hardinge  was  not  the  dupe  of  these  delusive  appearances. 
Though  immediately  after  his  landing  he  had  devoted  his  attention 
to  the  introduction  of  several  valuable  administrative  reforms,  and 
more  especially  to  establishing  such  a  system  of  education  as  might 
train  the  natives  of  Hindostan  in  a  knowledge  of  their  rights  and 
duties  as  British  subjects,  his  provident  glance  foresaw  elements  of 
comine  danger  in  the  disorganized  condition  of  the  court  of  Lahore, 
and  ivhile  almost  everybody  else  appeared  confident  of  calm,  he 
made  vigorous  preparations  to  meet  a  coming  storm. 

After  a  series  of  sanguinary  but  uninteresting  revolutions,  the 
crown  of  Lahore  had  devolved  on  Dhuleep  Singh,  a  feeble  boy,  whose 
claims  from  legitimacy  were  said  to  be  ;a  litUe  doubtful.  The  su- 
preme power,  however,  such  as  it  was,  belonged  to  the  aueen-dowa- 
ger,  or  ranee,  a  woman  of  the  most  profligate  habits,  and  whose  first 
element  of  policy  was  to  obtain  facilities  for  the  indulgence  of  her 
own  depraved  appetites.  To  learn  accurately  the  course  likely  to 
be  taken  by  such  an  administration  was  quite  impossible,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  no  definite  course  would  be  adopted  by  persons 
who  were  not  of  the  same  mind  for  an  hour  together.  Hence  the 
account  which  news-writers  gave  of  the  perplexities  and  confusion 
at  Lahore,  made  many  experienced  men  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
no  danger  was  to  be  dreaded  from  such  distraction.  Sir  Henry 
Hardinge,  however,  rightly  divined  that  the  distraction  itself  was 
the  danger. 

The  court  of  Lahore  was  utterly  helpless ;  but,  because  it  was  so 
helpless,  it  could  neither  control  nor  satisfy  the  army ;  and  this  army 
consisted  of  more  than  one  hundred  thousand  men,  well-armed,  to- 
lerably disciplined,  and  supplied  with  a  formidable  train  of  artillery, 
amounting  to  more  than  two  hundred  ffuns.  The  soldiers  also  enter- 
tained the  most  exaggerated  notions  of  their  own  prowess :  because 
they  had  been  disciplined  like  Europeans,  they  believed  themselves 
fully  equal  to  Euglish  soldiers,  and  ur  superior  to  the  sepoys.  Their 


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LORD  HARDING  E.  5 

religious  passions  were  stimulated  by  a  set  of  fanatics  called  Akalees^ 
who  promised  them  divine  aid  against  unbelievers ;  and  there  were 
European  adventurers  amongst  them,  who  had  not  forgotten  the 
love  of  plunder  which  they  had  acquired  in  the  service  of  Napoleon. 
The  leaders  of  these  bands  were  inspired  by  the  hope  of  carving  out 
independent  principalities,  as  had  been  frequently  done  before  by 
OBarping  generals  in  India ;  and  if  any  superior  officer  had  offered 
the  counsels  of  prudence,  he  would  in  all  probability  have  either 
been  assassinated  by  his  colleagues,  or  torn  to  pieces  by  the  multi- 
tude. 

It  is  not  easy  to  conceive  how  the  court  of  Lahore  could  ever  have 
kept  this  disorganized  army  in  order  and  obedience.  That  the  court 
sanctioned  the  invasion  of  the  British  dominions  has  not  been  proved, 
bat  neither  is  there  evidence  that  any  effort  was  made  to  prevent  the 
movement.  It  is  probable  that  the  ranee  and  her  ministers  were  not 
anxious  to  impede  an  enterprize  from  which  in  any  event  they  were 
sure  to  be  gainers.  If  the  Sikhs  were  defeated,  they  would  be  re- 
lieved from  the  terror  of  an  army  which  they  were  at  once  unable  to 
support,  and  afraid  to  disband;  if  the  invasion  succeeded,  they  might 
not  unreasonably  hope  for  a  share  of  the  spoil. 

Sir  Henry  Hardinge,  having  made  himself  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  all  these  facts,  saw  that  the  danger  of  an  irruption  was  immi- 
nent ;  and  not  satisfied  with  issuing  orders  for  proper  measures  of 
precaution,  he  quitted  Calcutta  for  the  upper  provinces,  and  arrived 
mt  Umballa  on  the  2nd  of  December.  Here  he  received  information 
that  the  protected  Sikhs  on  the  east  side  of  the  Sutlej  were  not  un- 
likely  to  countenance  and  aid  the  invaders, — a  circumstance  which 
proved  that  the  danger  was  more  imminent  and  more  extensive  than 
had  previously  been  imagined. 

Sir  Henry  Hardinge  probably  expected  that  the  Sikh  army 
would  have  broken  into  marauding  detachments,  and  assailed  the 
frontier  at  different  points.  No  one  could  have  anticipated  the  simul- 
taneous movement  of  the  entire  mass;  and  it  has  been  plausibly 
asserted  that  the  movement  itself  was  not  the  result  of  any  deliberate 
plan,  but  was  produced  by  one  of  those  sudden  impulses  by  which 
multitudes  are  so  often  propelled  to  a  course  of  action  so  united  as 
to  have  every  appearance  of  laboured  concert. 

The  precautions  taken  by  Sir  Henry  Hardinge,  although  made 
under  the  disadvantage  of  utter  uncertaintv  of  the  enemv's  move- 
ments, were  the  best  calculated  to  meet  tne  crisis  which  actually 
arrived.  Sir  John  Littler  was  stationed  with  a  strong  division  at 
Ferozepore,  in  a  position  sufficiently  strong  to  enable  him  to  resist 
the  Sikhs  until  the  main  army  could  be  brought  up  to  his  relief, 
should  they  cross  the  river  in  overwhelming  force ;  or  to  cut  off  their 
straggling  detachments,  if  the  enemy  only  appeared  in  marauding 
parties.  In  the  meantime,  the  main  army,  under  Sir  Hugh  Oough, 
was  assembled  at  Umballa,  ready  to  march,  in  whole  or  in  part, 
whenever  its  services  were  required. 

That  the  march  of  the  Sikhs  was  an  unpremeditated  movement, 
seems  probable,  from  the  information  transmitted  to  head-quarters 
by  the  political  assistant.  Major  Broadfoot.  He  sent  word  that  they 
had  no  intention  of  moving,  at  the  very  moment  thepr  i^ere  about 
to  commence  their  march.  It  has,  indeed,  been  said  that  Major 
Broadfoot  was  deceived,  and  much  blame  has  been  imputed  to  the 


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6  LORD   HABDIN6E. 

news-department,  for  not  obtaining  accurate  information.  But 
Mouton,  a  French  adventurer  then  in  the  Sikh  service,  declares 
that  the  march  was  unpremeditated,  inconsiderate,  and  hurried  for- 
ward against  the  wishes  and  opinions  of  most  of  the  officers. 

The  Sikhs  crossed  theSutlej  on  the  13th  of  December,  and  formed 
an  intrenched  camp  at  Ferozeshah.  Mouton,  who  is  not,  however, 
a  very  trustworthy  authority,  intimates  that  this  position  was  taken 
to  facilitate  a  junction  with  some  discontented  misuU  of  Sikhs  on 
the  east  bank  of  the  Sutlej ;  he  adds,  rather  as  an  ascertained  fact 
than  a  random  conjecture,  that  large  masses  of  the  native  population, 
from  the  Sutlej  down  to  the  very  walls  of  Calcutta,  were  ]^repared 
to  join  the  Sikhs,  should  they  succeed  in  penetrating  into  the 
country.  < 

Although  the  French  writer  has  greatly  exaggerated  the  amount  of 
the  general  disaffection,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  events  of 
the  Afghan  war  had  produced  a  deep  impression  on  the  Mohamme« 
dan  races  throughout  India,  and  that  many  even  among  those  sub- 
ject to  our  sway  had  hailed  the  disasters  of  Cabul  as  a  triumph  of 
the  crescent  over  the  cross.  No  Mohammedan  has  ever  forgotten 
that  the  supremacy  of  India  once  belonged  to  his  creed,  and  many  of 
them  believe  that  IsUm  is  yet  destined  to  achieve  another  triumph, 
and  establish  an  empire  more  powerful  than  that  of  Delhi  in  its 
most  glorious  days. 

Much  exasperation,  too,  had  been  caused  by  Lord  Ellenborough's 
bombastic  and  most  imprudent  proclamation  respecting  the  gates  of 
Somnath.  Mahmood  of  Ghuxni  is  revered  as  a  saint  by  the  Mus- 
sulmans of  India;  he  is  considered  as  the  greatest  of  their  ghazees, 
or  heroes,  whose  lives  were  devoted  to  the  extirpation  of  idolatry, 
and  the  propagation  of  the  true  faith.  The  removal  of  one  of  ms 
proudest  trophies  from  his  tomb,  and  the  proclamation  of  the  deed 
as  an  achievement  of  which  the  British  Government  ought  to  be 
proud,  was  regarded  as  a  triumph  unnecessarily  conceded  to  idola- 
trous Hindooism,  and  an  insult  wantonly  offered  to  the  purer  faith 
of  the  Prophet  of  Mecca.  Sir  Henry  Hardinge's  judicious  and  suc- 
cessful efforts  to  allay  these  feelings  of  irritation,  are  not  less  credit- 
able to  his  character  as  a  statesman,  than  the  management  of  the 
campaign,  to  his  talents  as  a  military  commander.  Mouton  is  pro- 
bably correct  in  his  assertion,  that  the  Sikhs  expected  a  general  in- 
surrection of  the  Mohammedans  throughout  India,  as  soon  as  thepr 
appeared  beyond  the  Sutlej  ;  but  he  is  unquestionably  wrong  in  his 
assertion,  that  the  disaffection  on  which  they  relied  generally  existed. 
Whatever  discontent  Lord  Ellenborough's  imitation  of  Ossian  may 
have  produced,  had  been  long  since  allayed  by  the  discreet  and  con- 
ciliatory course  of  policy  which  Sir  Henry  Hardinge  had  adopted, 
and  carried  out  witn  success. 

So  soon  as  the  news  of  the  passing  of  the  Sutlej  reached  head- 
quarters. Sir  Hugh  Oough  was  directed  to  advance  from  Umballa, 
and  effect  a  junction  with  Sir  John  Littler,  at  Ferozepore.  At  Mood- 
kee  there  was  an  unexpected  battle;  the  Sikhs  had  advanced  to  pre- 
vent the  jimction  of  the  two  divisions  of  the  British  forces,  and  Sir 
Hugh  Gough,  with  his  usual  gallantry,  no  sooner  found  himself  in 
the  presence  of  the  enemy,  than  he  made  instant  preparations  for 
battle. 

Some  of  the  Anglo-Indian  joumab  have  blamed  Sir  Hugh  Gough 


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LORD  HARDINGE.  7 

aa  imprudent  in  ordering  this  attack,  as  the  Sikhs  were  compara* 
tively  fresh,  while  the  British  forces  were  wearied  from  their  long 
march.  But  it  has  been  properly  replied,  that  under  all  the  circum- 
stances it  was  a  great  advantage  to  become  the  assailants*  Indepen- 
dently of  the  great  enthusiasm  which  attack  inspires,  and  the  chilling 
tendencies  of  mere  defence.  Sir  Huffh  Gough's  bold  resolution  had 
all  the  effects  on  the  Sikhs  of  a  comjuete  surprise ;  they  could  hardlv 
believe  their  senses  when  they  saw  the  lines  of  a  wearied  march 
promptly  formed  into  ardent  columns  of  attack. 

The  battle  of  Moodkee  was  sanguinary  and  well  contested;  among 
the  brave  who  fell  was  Sir  Robert  Sale,  the  hero  of  Jelallabad,  whose 
loss  was  bitterly  lamented  not  only  by  the  army  but  by  the  nation. 
After  a  terrific  strife,  victory  declared  for  the  English;  but  the 
fiitigue  of  the  soldiers,  and  the  shades  of  night  which  closed  rapidly 
round,  prevented  the  success  from  being  so  decisive  as  it  otherwise 
would  have  been  ;  seventeen  pieces  of  cannon,  however,  remained 
in  the  possession  of  the  conquerors. 

Mouton  informs  us  that  the  Sikhs  were  not  intimidated  by  the 
result  of  the  battle  of  Moodkee,  and  he  even  insinuates  that  the 
event  would  have  been  different  had  not  the  English  bribed  some 
unnamed  commander  to  desert  his  post.  Sir  Henry  Hardinge  was 
not  elated  with  the  victory;  he  saw  that  danger  could  only  be 
averted  by  success  the  most  complete,  and  conquest  the  most  deci- 
sive ;  and  though  he  did  not  interfere  with  the  strategy  of  the  com- 
mander-in-chief, he  aided  in  directing  the  movements  which  effected 
a  junction  with  Sir  John  Littler,  preparatory  to  a  decisive  attack  on 
the  entrenched  camp  of  the  enemy  at  Ferozepore.  Laying  aside  his 
dignity  as  governor-general,  he  volunteered  to  serve  under  Sir  Hugh 
Gough,  and  took  the  command  of  the  left  wing  on  the  memorable 
21  St  of  December.  Mouton  informs  us  that  the  Sikh  position  was 
far  stronger  than  the  English  had  supposed ;  its  enormous  park  of 
artillery  was  directed  by  skilful  European  officers ;  it  was  of  the 
heaviest  calibre,  and  the  English  could  only  oppose  it  with  a  few 
light  guns.  He  also  states  the  number  of  the  Sikhs  higher  than 
any  of  the  English  authorities,  bringing  it  pretty  nearly  to  the  pro- 
portion immortalized  by  the  cleverest  of  recent  puns,  "  they  were 
six  (Sikhs)  and  we  one  (won)."  The  battle  began  in  the  evening ; 
the  English,  after  a  desperate  struggle,  effected  a  lodgment  in  the 
hostile  fortifications,  but  their  tenure  of  it  was  uncertain,  and  the 
issue  more  than  doubtful,  when  a  tropical  night,  coming  with  more 
than  usual  rapidity,  suspended  the  combat.  If  Mouton  is  to  be  be- 
lieved, the  Sikhs  lay  down  to  sleep  that  night  in  full  assurance  of  a 
decisive  victory  on  the  following  morning ;  and  so  far  as  we  can 
comprehend  expressions  designed  to  be  ambiguous,  he  and  the  other 
Europeans  shared  the  same  confidence. 

"  V  ictory,"  said  one  of  the  successors  of  Alexander,  under  nearly 
similar  circumstances,  *<  belongs  to  those  who  sleep  not."  That 
night  was  spent  by  Sir  Henry  Hardinge,  Sir  Hugh  Oough,  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  English  staff*,  in  visiting  the  different  posts,  going 
round  to  the  soldiers  in  their  bivouac,  and  preparing  them  for  the 
tremendous  issue  staked  on  the  result  of  the  following  morning. 
We  have  heard  on  excellent  authority,  which  we  regret  that  we  are 
not  at  liberty  to  name,  that  Sir  Henry  Hardinge,  on  his  perilous 
tour  of  inspection  during  this  memorable  night,  was  accompanied 


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8  LORD  HARDINGE. 

by  his  gallant  son^  and  that  in  many  moments  of  danger  there  was 
a  generous  contest  between  father  and  son^  each  anxious  to  shield 
the  precious  life  of  the  other  at  the  risk  of  his  own.  Shakspeare 
has  preserved  a  similar  instance  of  paternal  and  filial  affection  in  the 
gallant  Talboto. 

The  complete  annihilation  of  the  Sikh  army  which  terminated 
this  contest^  can  only  be  described  by  military  historians^  because 
it  was  the  triumph  of  strategy  and  tactics  over  unregulated  force. 
Let  us  be  just  to  a  fallen  enemy ;  the  Sikhs  exhibited  as  much  indi- 
vidual bravery  as  in  the  old  days  of  chivalrous  warfare  must  have 
ensured  success ;  they  were  defeated  by  generalship  rather  than  by 
soldiery ;  even  Mouton  confesses  that  the  unhesitating  confidence 
which  the  sepoys  placed  in  their  leaders,  and  the  want  of  faith  in 
their  generals  felt  by  the  Sikhs,  was  the  chief  determining  cause  of 
the  final  and  glorious  issue. 

The  result  of  the  campaign  on  the  Sutlej  was  more  than  a  victory 
or  even  a  conquest, — it  was  an  utter  annihilation  of  the  enemy. 
That  mighty  army  which  threatened  to  change  the  destinies  of  Asia, 
ceased  to  exist.  What  Runjeet  Sinsh  had  so  often  predicted  when 
urged  to  make  war  on  the  English,  was  fully  accomplished — the 
Punjab  lay  at  the  mercy  of  the  conquerors.  At  this  crisis  Sir  Henry 
Hardinge  nobly,  though  unconsciously,  refuted  the  French  maligners 
of  England ;  while  foreign  journals  were  endeavouring  to  raise  a 
popular  clamour  against  the  new  acquisitions  of  territory  about  to 
be  added  to  our  empire.  Sir  Henry  Hardinge  was  providing  for  the 
independence  of  Lanore,  and  exerting  himself  to  secure  the  future 
prosperity  of  the  Punjab  under  the  rule  of  native  sovereigns. 

So  far  as  we  have  been  able  to  learn,  the  policy  adopted  by  Eng- 
land in  the  Punjab  has  been  more  successful  than  coiud  have  been 
anticipated  from  the  character  of  those  Sikhs  to  whom  a  large  share 
in  the  administration  has  been  necessarily  delegated.  The  agricul- 
ture and  the  commerce  of  the  country  were  never  in  so  flourishing 
a  condition,  and  in  concluding  this  rapid  sketch,  we  cannot  avoid 
expressing  our  gratification  that  the  successor  of  the  warrior  and 
statesman  whose  brilliant  career  we  have  so  imperfectly  delineated, 
is  a  nobleman  who,  as  President  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  exerted 
himself  strenuously  to  establish  the  two  great  principles,  that  indus- 
try is  the  only  true  source  of  prosperity  to  a  people,  and  commerce 
the  best  bond  of  union  between  nations. 

Before  closing  this  brief  sketch  of  the  brilliant  career  of  the  gallant 
chief,  whose  return  to  his  native  land,  crowned  with  victory,  is 
hourly  expected,  it  is  not  altogether  irrelevant  to  draw  attention  to 
a  volume  of  drawings  entitled  "  Recollections  of  India,"  by  the  noble 
viscount's  eldest  son,  the  Hon.  Charles  Stewart  Hardinge.  It  is  one 
of  the  most  picturesque  series  of  drawings  of  perhaps  the  most  pic- 
turesque countries  in  the  world,  and  will  be  prized  not  merely  by  all 
Anglo-Indians,  but  by  all  who  can  appreciate  subjects  so  magni- 
ficent, treated  with  such  admirable  taste. 


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THE  SEARCH  AFTER  TRUTH. 

A      TRUTH. 
BT   ALFBBD  CBOWQUILL. 

Faib  troth  the  ancient  sages  tell. 

Lies  at  the  bottom  of  a  well. 

That  troth 's  not  troth,  the  reason  why 

Is,  that  no  troth  can  ever  lie. 

A  sage,  quite  anxious  after  troth. 

Who  'd  lied  tremendously  in  youth, 

Resolved  to  take  his  staff  and  see 

Whether  such  a  thing  could  be. 

He  turaed  his  searching  eyes  around. 

And  soon  a  prattling  nurse  he  found. 

With  swaddled  infant  on  her  knee — 

Here,  surely,  no  deceit  could  be  I 

But  lies  on  lies  she  told  by  score 

To  please  herself,  and  nothing  more ; 

For  babyhood  knew  not  one  word 

Of  all  the  fairy  trash  it  heard. 

He  turoed  disgusted  from  her  side 

And,  sitting  on  a  bank,  espied 

A  little  boy,  with  book  in  hand 

Of  wondrous  tales  of  fairy  land. 

All  lies  again,  but  yet  the  youth 

Read  and  received  them  all  as  truth. 

As  near  a  copse  he  chanced  to  pass, 

He  saw  a  shepherd  and  his  lass ; 

He  crept  behind  a  neighbouring  tree- 

To  listen  to  his  rhapsody, 

But  only  Ibtened  to  deplore 

And  hear  love's  lies  he  *d  lied  of  yore. 

For  how  can  love  of  any  kind 

See  the  troth  when  it  is  blind  ? 

He  sought  the  mansions  of  the  great, 

The  doors  were  thronged  with  liveried  state^ 

Expressly  kept,  to  his  surprise. 

To  help  their  masters  with  their  lies. 

He  entered  where  th*  ennobled  sat, 

But  all  unprofitable,  flat. 

There  fair  ones  kissed,  and  smirked,  and  smiled. 

But  each  the  other  still  beguiled 

With  flattery  and  friendly  sneers. 

All  being  still  such  loves  and  dears. 

He  blushed  for  troth,  and  felt  ashamed 

For  here  he  never  heard  him  named. 

There  noble  lords,  in  whispering  knots. 

Political  in  all  their  plots, 

Looked  on  each  other  but  as  tools, 

And  left  sincerity  to  fools. 

He  left,  and  sought  a  hovel  door 

Of  one  most  desolately  poor, 


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10  THE  SEABCH  AFTER  TRUTH. 

And  as  he  stooped  to  lift  the  latch 

A  loaf  was  hidden  in  the  thatch ; 

The  pauper  then  with  canting  moan 

BewaiFd  his  fate  to  starve  alone. 

No  bread,  he  said,  his  lips  had  passed 

Since  the  day  before  the  last : 

The  sage  upraised  his  hand  and  took 

The  loaf  from  out  its  hidden  nook 

And  held  it  out  before  his  eye 

A  silent  proyer  of  the  lie. 

Invectives  deep  the  beggar  swore, 

And  thrust  him  from  his  hovel  door. 

He  bit  his  lip  and  took  his  way, 

For  yet  of  truth  he  *d  seen  no  ray. 

He  sought  stern  Justice  with  her  scales  ; 

To  find  the  truth  she  never  fails. 

Wise  men  were  there  to  find  out  lies ; 

Alas  I  the  scales  were  on  her  eyes. 

And  all  their  tricks  she  could  not  see, 

Lying  for  hire — a  paltry  fee, 

To  free  great  rogues  who  made  a  flaw. 

And  could  not  lie  to  please  the  law. 

A  patriot  passed  with  cheering  mob. 

He  saw  *twas  an  election  job ; 

And  yet  the  patriot  promised  all 

To  stand  with  them,  or  with  them  fall. 

Knowing  that  he  was  bought  and  sold 

To  party,  for  some  trifling  gold, 

He  fled  the  town  in  sheer  disgust. 

And  losmg  all  his  former  trust 

He  lay  upon  a  bank  to  rest, 

Resolved  to  give  up  further  quest, 

When  o*er  the  little  sparkling  brook 

A  brown  young  boy,  with  shepherd's  crook 

Approached,  and  standing  by  his  side, 

With  mouth  and  eyes  both  open  wide, 

Stared  out  his  fill,  then  grinned  a  grin 

To  see  the  taking  he  was  in. 

Here 's  one  imbued  with  truth,  no  doubt, 

I  think  I  here  have  found  it  out 

So  thought  the  sage,  his  heart  was  glad, 

So,  smiling  on  the  rustic  lad. 

He  spoke,  and  said,  *<  Come  here,  my  man ; 

Pray  answer  me,  I  think  you  can ; 

Do  you  know  truth,  and  what  it  is  ?" 

The  youth  looked  sly,  he  feared  a  quiz. 

He  gnawed  his  thumb  and  scratched  his  ear. 

Then,  with  a  most  uncommon  leer. 

He  said — the  young  ingenuous  youth — 

"  You  are  afody  and  that '«  the  trtUk  /" 

The  sage  got  up  and  seized  his  staff. 

The  boy  had  fled  with  hearty  laugh. 

He  said,  when  reaching  home  that  night, 

"  Upon  my  soul,  that  boy  was  right  I" 


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11 

THE  COUNTRY  TOWNS  AND  INNS  OP  PRANCE. 

BY  J.  MABYBL. 

OA2ETTEEB8.  —  IKV8     AKD     CAFES   OF   LTOlTf. —  SHOWS    07     LTOVS.  —  THE 
MESSAOERIES   GENERALES. — FRENCH   ROADSIDE. — LIVOOBS. 

I  ALWAYS  felt  a  stitmg  curiosity  to  learn  something  about  those  great 
inland  cities  of  France  which  maintain  a  somewhat  doubtful  and  preca- 
rious existence  in  the  public  mind,  by  being  set  down  in  the  books  of 
geographers.  I  had  been  whipped  to  learn  in  my  old  school  a  long 
paragraph  about  Lyons,  I  dare  say,  ten  times  over;  and  yet,  when 
bowling  down  the  mountains  in  a  craxy  diligence,  at  midni^t,  between 
Geneya  and  the  city  of  silks,  I  could  not  teU  a  syllable  about  it. 

I  had  half  a  memory  of  its  baring  been  the  scene  of  dreadful  mur- 
ders in  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  and  shuddered  at  thought  of  its 
bloody  and  dark  streets ;  I  knew  the  richest  silks  of  the  West  came 
from  Lyons,  and  so  thought  it  must  be  full  of  silk-shops  and  factories ; 
I  remembered  how  Tristam  Shandy  had  broke  down  his  chaise,  and 
gone  **  higgledy-piggledy  "  in  a  cart  into  Lyons,  and  so  I  thought  the 
roads  must  be  very  rough  around  the  city ;  my  old  tutor,  in  his  explica- 
tion of  the  text  of  Tacitus,*  had  given  me  the  idea  that  Lyons  was  a  cold 
-city,  far  away  to  the  north ;  and  as  for  the  tourists,  if  I  had  undertaken 
to  entertain  upon  the  midnight  in  question  one  half  of  the  contradictory 
notions  which  they  had  put  in  my  mind  from  time  to  time,  my  thoughts 
about  Lyons  would  have  been  more  ^'higgledy-piggledy**  than  poor  Sterne's 
post-chaise,  and  worse  twisted  than  his  papers  in  the  curls  of  the 
chaise-vamper's  wife. 

I  had  predetermined  to  disregard  all  that  the  tourists  had  written,  and 
to  find  things  (a  very  needless  resolve),  quite  the  opposite  of  what  they 
had  been  described  to  be. 

I  nudged  F ,  who  was  dozing  in  the  comer  under  the  lantern,  and 

took  his  Pocket  Gazetteer,  and  turning  to  the  place  where  we  were  going, 
read,  **  Lyons  is  the  second  city  of  France :  it  is  situated  on  the  Khone, 
near  its  junction  with  the  Saone ;  it  has  large  silk  manufactories,  and  a 
venerable  old  cathedral"  We  shall  see,  thought  L  What  a  help  to 
the  digestion  of  previously  acquired  information,  is  the  simple  seeing 
for  one's  self  I 

The  whole  budget  of  history  and  of  fiction,  whether  of  travel-writers 
or  romancers,  and  of  geographers,  fades  into  insignificance  in  compari- 
son with  one  glance  of  an  actual  observer.  Particular  positions  and 
events  may  be  vivid  to  the  mind,  but  they  can  tell  no  story  of  noise  and 
presence,  of  rivers  rushing,  wheels  rolling,  sun  shining,  voices  talking. 
And  why  can  not  these  all  be  so  pictured  that  a  man  might  wake  up  in 
a  far  off  city  as  if  it  were  an  old  story  ?  Simply  because  each  observer 
has  his  individualities,  which  it  is  as  impossible  to  convey  to  the  mind 
of  another  by  writing,  as  it  would  have  been  for  me  to  have  kept  awake 
that  night  in  the  diligence,  after  reading  so  sleepy  a  paragraph  as  that 
in  the  Gazetteer. 

*  Cohortem  duodevioesimam  Lugdimi,  $olitu  tibi  hyhemis,  rellnqui  placuit.— 
Tacitus,  lib.  r.  cap.  64. 


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12  THE  COUNTRY   TOWNS 

I  dreamed  of   silk  cravats^  and  gaping  cut-throatsy   until  F 

nudged  me  in  his  turn  at  two  in  the  morning,  and  said  we  had  got  to 
Lyons* 

**  Hotel  du  Nord,"  I  say  to  the  porter  who  has  my  luggage  on  his 
back,  and  away  I  follow  through  the  dim  and  silent  streets  to  where, 
opposite  the  Grand  Theatre,  with  its  arcades  running  round  it»  our/ac- 
teur  stops,  and  tinkles  a  bell  at  the  heayy  doors  opening  into  the  court 
of  the  Hdtel  du  Nord.  At  first  sight,  it  seems  not  unlike  some  of  the 
larger  and  more  substantial  inns  which  may  be  met  with  in  some  of  our 
inland  towns,  but  in  a  street  narrower  and  dimmer  by  half  than  are 
American  streets.  Up  four  pair  of  stairs  the  waiter  conducts  me,  in 
hb  shirt  sleeves,  to  a  snug  bedroom,  where  in  ten  minutes  I  am  fast 
asleep.  The  pofter  goes  off  satisfied  with  a  third  of  his  demand,  and  I 
have  just  fallen  to  dreaming  again  the  old  diligence  dreams,  when  the 
noise  of  the  rising  world,  and  the  roll  of  cars  over  the  heavy  stone 
pavement  below,  shakes  me  into  broad  wakefulness. 

A  fat  lady  in  the  office  does  the  honours  of  the  house.  Various 
companies  are  seated  about  the  salon,  which  in  most  of  the  provincial 
hotels  serves  also  as  breakfast-room.  Yet,  altogether,  the  house  has  a 
city  air,  and  might  be — saving  the  language,  with  its  mon  Dieusy  up  the 
five  pair  of  stairs,  and  the  waxen  brick  floors,  and  the  open  court,  a 
New- York  hotel,  dropped  down  within  stone's  throw  of  the  bounding 
Rhone. 

White-aproned  waiters,  like  cats,  are  stealing  over  the  stone  stair- 
cases, and  a  fox-eyed  valet  is  on  the  look-out  for  you  at  the  door. 
There  are  very  few  towns  in  France  in  which  the  stranger  is  not  de^ 
tectedi  and  made  game  of.  But  what,  pray,  is  there  worth  seeing,  that 
an  eye,  though  undirected,  cannot  see  even  in  so  great  a  city  as 
Lyons  ? 

Besides,  there  was  always  to  me  an  infinite  deal,of  satis&ction  in  stroll'* 
ing  through  a  strange  place,  led  only  by  my  own  vagaries ;  in  threading 
long  labyrinths  of  lanes,  to  break  on  a  sudden  upon  some  strange  sight ; 
in  losing  myself,  as  in  the  old  woods  at  home,  in  the  bewilderment  that 
my  curiosity  and  ignorance  always  led  me  into. 

What  on  earth  matters  it,  if  you  do  not  see  this  queer  bit  of  mechan- 
ism, or  some  old  fragment  of  armour,  or  some  rich  mercer's  shop,  that 
your  valet  would  lead  you  to  ?-r-do  you  not  get  a  better  idea  of  the  city, 
its  houses,  noise,  habits,  position,  and  extent,  in  tramping  off  with  your 
map  and  g^de-book,  as  you  would  tramp  over  fields  at  home,  lost  in 
your  own  dreams  of  comparison  and  analysis  ? 

You  know,  for  instance,  there  are  bridges  over  the  river  worth  the 
seeing,  and  with  no  guide  but  the  roar  of  the  water,  you  push  your  way 
down  toward  the  long,'  stately  quay.  The  heavy,  old  arches  of  stone 
wallowing  out  of  the  stream,  contrast  strongly  with  the  graceful  curves 
of  the  long  bridge  of  iron.  Steamers  and  bai^s  breast  to  breast,  three 
deep,  lie  along  the  margin  of  the  river,  and  huge  piles  of  merchandise 
are  packed  upon  the  quay. 

The  stately  line  of  the  great  hospital,  the  Hotel  Dieu,  Wretches  near 
half  a  mile,  with  heavy  stone  front  along  the  river.  Opposite  is  a  busy 
suburb,  which  has  won  itself  a  name,  and  numbers  population  enough 
for  a  city,  were  it  not  in  the  shadow  of  the  greater  one  of  Lyons. 

You  would  have  hardly  looked — if  you  had  uo  more  correct  notions 
than  I — ^for  such  tall,  substantial  warehouses,  along  such  a  noisy  quay 


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AND   INNS  OF   FRANCE.  IS 

deep  in  the  ooontryy  after  so  many  days  of  hard  and  heavy  diligence- 
riding.  Yet  here  are  customs-men,  with  their  swords  hong  to  their  belts, 
marching  along  the  walks,  as  if  they  were  veritable  coast-guard,  and 
wore  the  insignia  of  government,  instead  of  the  authority  of  the  city — 
and  were  in  search  of  smugglers,  instead  of  levying  the  octroi  dues  upon 
the  com  and  wine  of  the  Saone  and  the  olives  of  Provence,  Soldiers, 
too,  are  visible  at  every  turn,  for  the  people  of  Lyons  have  ever  been 
disposed  to  question  earliest  the  rights  of  the  constituted  authorities, 
and  the  Hberal  government  of  the  charter  reckon  nothing  better  prevmi- 
thre  of  the  ill  effects  of  this  prying  disposition,  than  a  full  supply  of  the 
small  men  in  crimson  breeches,  who  wear  straight,  sharp  swords  upon 
their  thigh,  and  man  the  great  fortification  upon  the  hill  above  the  city, 
which  points  its  guns  into  every  alley  and  street. 

There  is  more  earnestness  in  faces  in  this  town  of  Lvons,  than  one 
sees  upon  the  Boulevards,  as  if  there  was  something  in  the  world  to  do 
beside  searching  for  amusement  There  is  a  half-English,  business-look 
grafted  upon  a  careless  French  habit  of  life ;  and  blouse  and  broadcloth 
both  push  by  you  in  the  street,  as  if  each  was  earning  the  dinner  of  the 
day.  But  the  blouse  has  not  the  grace  of  the  Paris  blouse ;  nor  has  the 
broadcloth  the  grace  of  the  Paris  broadcloth.  Both  have  a  second-rate 
air ;  and  they  seem  to  wear  a  consciousness  about  them  of  being  second- 
rate  ;  whereas  your  Parisian,  whether  he  be  boot-black  to  a  coal  seller 
of  the  Faubourg  St.  Denb,  or  tailor  in  ordinary  to  the  Count  de  Paris, 
feels  quite  assured  that  nothing  can  possibly  be  finer  in  its  way  than  his 
blouse  or  his  coat  Even  the  porter  cannot  shoulder  a  trunk  like  the 
Paris  porter,  the  waiter  cannot  receive  you  with  half  the  grace  of  a 
Paris  waiter;  and  the  soi^isant  grisettes,  who  are  stirring  in  the  streets, 
are  as  much  inferior  to  those  of  the  Rue  Vivienne,  in  carriage  and  air, 
as  Vulcan  would  have  been  inferior  to  Ganymede  as  cup-bearer  to  Jove. 
Even  the  horses  in  the  cabs  have  a  dog-trot  sort  of  jog,  that  would  not 
at  all  be  countenanced  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix ;  and  carters  shout  to 
their  mules  in  such  villainous  patois  Lyonnais,  as  would  shock  the  ear 
of  the  cavalry  grooms  at  the  School  Militaire. 

Yet  all  these  have  the  good  sense  to  perceive  their  short-comings ; 
and  nothing  is  more  the  object  of  their  ambition  than  to  approach  near 
as  may  be,  to  the  forms  and  characteristics  of  the  beautiful  City.  If  a 
carman  upon  the  quay  of  the  Rhone,  or  the  Saone,— which  romps 
through  the  other  side  of  the  city,  could  crack  his  whip  with  the  air 
and  gesture  of  the  Paris  postman,  he  would  be  very  sure  to  achieve  all 
the  honours  of  his  profession.  And  if  a  Lyonnaise  milliner  woman 
could  hang  her  shawl,  or  arrange  it  in  her  window,  like  those  of  the 
Pl^ce  yend6me,  or  Lucy  Hoquet,  her  bonnets  would  be  the  rage  of  all 
the  daughters  of  all  the  silk  mercers  in  Lyons. 

They  have  Paris  cafes  at  Lyons, — not,  indeed,  arranged  with  all  the 
splendour  of  the  best  of  the  capital ;  but  out  of  it,  you  will  find  no  bet- 
ter, except  perhaps  at  Marseilles.  Here  you  will  find  the  same  general 
features  that  characterize  the  Paris  csfk;  in  matters  of  commercial 
transaction,  perhaps  the  exchange  overrules  the  cafe ;  and  in  military 
affiurs,  probably  the  junto  of  the  Caserne  would  supersede  the  discus- 
sions at  breakfast ;  but  yet,  I  am  quite  assured,  that  the  most  earnest 
thinking  here,  as  in  nearly  every  town  of  France,  b  done  at  the  cafe. 

The  society  of  the  Lyons  caf6s  is  not  so  homogeneous  as  in  their 
types  of  Paris.     Here,  blouses  mingle  more  with  the  red  ribbon  of  the 


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14f  THE  COUNTRY  T0WN8 

legion  of  honour ;  and  a  couple  of  workmen  may  be  luxuriating  at  one 
table  over  a  bottle  of  Strasburg  beer^  while  at  another  a  young  mer-* 
chant  may  be  treating  his  military  friend  in  the  blue  frock  coat,  and 
everlasting  crimson  pantaloons,  to  a  pint  of  sparkling  St.  Peray. 

The  caf6,  too,  does  not  preserve  so  strictly  its  generic  character,  and 
half  merges  into  the  restaurant.  At  any  rate,  I  remember  seeing  the 
marble  slabs  covered  with  napkins  at  ^ye^  and  stout  men  with  towels 
under  their  chins,  eating  stewed  duck  and  peas.  And  later  in  the  even- 
ing, when  I  have  dropped  into  the  bright-lighted  cafe,  just  on  the  quay 
from  which  the  Pepin  steamer  takes  its  departure  for  Avignon,  I  have 
seen  strong  meat  on  half  the  tables. 

As  there  is  more  work  done  in  a  provincial  city,  so  we  may  safely 
presume  there  is  more  eating  done :  my  own  observation  confirms  the 
truth.  So  it  is  that  the  breakfast  comes  earlier,  and  those  who  loiter 
till  twelve  in  a  Lyons  cafe,  are  either  strangers  or  playactors,  or  lieu- 
tenants taking  a  dose  of  absinthe,  or  workmen  dropped  in  for  a  cup  of 
beer,  or  some  of  those  youngsters  who  may  be  found  in  every  town  of 
France^  who  sustain  a  large  reputation  with  tailors  and  shop-girls,  by 
following,  closely  as  their  means  will  allow,  the  very  worst  of  Paris 
habits. 

The  coffee  itself  is  short,  as  every  where  else,  of  Paris  excellence ; 
but  the  nice  mutton  chops  are  done  to  a  charm,  and  there  is  so  much  of 
broad  country  about  you, — ^to  say  nothing  of  the  smell  of  the  grreat 
land-watering  Rhone  at  the  door,  that  you  feel  sure  of  eating  the  healthy 
growth  of  the  earth. 

The  chief  of  the  Paris  journals  may  be  found,  too,  in  the  Lyons  caf6; 
and  what  aliment  are  they  to  poor  provincials  I  It  were  as  well  to  de- 
prive them  of  the  fresh  air  of  heaven,  as  to  deny  them  such  food  ;-^ 
even  the  g^argons  would  pine  under  the  bereavement.  The  spiritless 
provincial  journals  are  but  faint  echoes  of  detached  paragraphs  from 
the  capital ;  they  aid  the  digestion  of  the  others,  not  from  a  stimulus 
supplied,  but  rather  as  a  diluent  of  the  exciting  topics  of  the  city.  No- 
thing but  local  accidents,  and  the  yearly  report  of  the  mulberry  crop 
could  ever  give  mterest  to  a  joumd  of  Lyons.  In  consequence  they 
are  few  and  read  rarely.  Still  the  provincial  editor  is  always  one  of  the 
great  men  of  the  town ;  but  newspaper  editing  is  on  a  very  different 
footing,  as  regards  public  estimation,  in  France,  from  that  in  America* 
And  in  passing,  I  may  remark  further,  that  while  our  institutions  are 
such,  from  their  liberality,  as  ought  to  render  the  public  journal  one  of 
the  most  powerful  means  of  influencing  the  popular  mind,  and  as  such, 
worthy  of  the  highest  consideration^  in  view  of  the  opinions  promul- 
gated, and  the  character  of  the  writers,  yet  there  seems  to  be  no  coun- 
try in  which  men  are  less  willing  to  g^ve  it  praise  for  high  conduct,  or 
reproach  for  what  is  base. 

The  restaurants  of  such  a  city  are  not  far  behind  those  of  Paris,  ex- 
cept in  size  and  arrangements.  Lyons,  like  Paris,  has  its  aristocratic 
dinner-places,  and  its  two-franc  tables,  and  its  ten-sou  chop-houses.  In 
none,  however,  is  anything  seen  illustrative  of  French  habitude,  but  is 
seen  better  at  Paris. 

As  in  the  caf^s,  so  you  will  find  larger  eaters  in  the  restaurants  of 
the  provinces ;  and  the  preponderance  of  stewed  fillets  and  roast  meats, 
over  fries  and  comfits,  is  greater  than  at  even  the  Grand  Vatel.  You 
will  find,  too,  that  many  of  the  Paris  dishes,  which  appear  upon  the  bill 


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AND  INNS  OF   FRANCE.  15 

of  the  day,  are  unfortunately  confumed ;  bat  if  yoo  order  tbem,  you 
will  be  sure  of  the  compassionate  regards  of  the  old  widow  lady  sittrag 
next  uble  to  yon  with  three  blooming  daughters ;  for  if  a  stranger  bat 
smack  of  Paris  in  ever  so  slight  a  degree,  he  is  looked  upon  in  every 
comer  of  France  as  one  of  the  fortunate  beings  of  the  earth. 

It  is  presumed — ^nay,  it  is  never  even  questioned, — by  a  thorough-* 
souled  Frendiman,  especially  such  as  have  never  journeyed  up  to  Paris, 
that  whoever  has  visited  la  belle  viUe  has  reached  the  acme  of  all  world- 
ly pleasures ; — that  every  other  city,  and  the  language  of  every  other, 
are  barbarous  in  the  comparison.  A  Paris  lover  would  break  as  many 
hearts  in  the  provinces,  as  a  Paris  advocate  would  write  codicils,  or  a 
P^ris  cobbler  make  shoes.  None  harbour  the  hallucination  so  entirely 
as  the  women  of  the  provinces ;  hint  only  that  they  have  the  air  of 
Farisiansy  and  you  make  friends  of  shrewish  landladies,  and  quissing 
shop-girls ; — though  their  friendship,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  no  guarantee 
against  being  cheated  by  both. 

It  would  be  very  hard  if  Lyons  had  not  its  share  of  those  tights, 
which  draw  the  great  world  of  lookers-on, — who  travel  to  see  the  out- 
side and  inside  of  churches  and  palaces,  but  who  would  never  think  of 
walking  out  of  their  h6tel  at  dinner-time,  to  try  a  meal  in  such  snug 
restaurants,  as  may  be  found  on  the  square  by  the  Hdtel  de  Ville, — ^to 
look  the  people  fairly  in  the  face.  And  a  very  quiet  and  fine  old  square 
is  that,  upon  which  Uie  rich  black  tower  of  the  H6tel  de  Ville  of  Lyons 
throws  its  shadow.  Its  pavement  is  smooth  and  solid,  its  buildings  firm, 
tall,  and  wearing  the  sober  dignity  of  years.  Civil  carriage-men  hold 
their  stand  in  the  middle,  and  toward  mid-aflenioon,  loiterers  gproup  over 
the  square,  and  ladies  are  picking  their  way  before  the  gay  shop-windows 
at  the  sides. 

The  proud  old  hAtel  itself  is  not  a  building  to  be  slighted ;  and  the 
clock  that  hammers  the  hours  in  its  dingy,  but  rich  inner  court,  could 
tell  strange  stories,  if  it  would,  of  the  scenes  that  have  transpired  under 
its  face,  in  the  cruel  days  of  the  Directory.  Nowhere  was  murder  more 
rife  in  France  than  at  Lyons ;  and  the  council  that  ordered  the  murders 
held  thehr  sittings  in  a  little  chamber  of  the  same  H6tel  de  Ville,  whose 
windows  now  look  down  upon  the  quiet,  gray  court*  It  is  still  there 
now  ;  you  may  see  a  police  officer  hanging  idly  about  the  doorway,  and 
at  the  grand  entrance  is  always  a  corps  of  soldiers.  Two  colossal  re- 
clining figures,  that  would  make  the  fortune  of  any  town  in  America, 
still  show  the  marks  of  the  thumping  times  of  the  Revolution ; — it  was 
the  old  story  of  the  viper  and  the  file,  for  the  statues  were  of  bronze, 
and  guard  yet  in  the  vestibule,  their  fruits  and  flowers. 

The  £une  of  the  cathedral  will  draw  the  stranger  on  a  hap-hazard 
chase  of  half  the  steeples  in  the  town ;  nor  will  he  be  much  disappointed 
in  mistaking  the  church  of  N6tre-Dame  for  the  object  of  his  search. 
And  abuncUmtly  will  he  be  rewarded,  if  his  observation  has  not  ex- 
tended beyond  the  French  Gothic,  to  wander  at  length  under  the  high 
arches  of  the  Cathedral  of  St  John.  Shall  I  describe  it  ? — then  fancy 
a  forest  glade — (you,  Mary,  can  do  it,  for  you  live  in  the  midst  of 
woods) — a  forest  glade,  I  say,  with  tree-trunks  huge  as  those  which 
fatten  on  the  banks  of  our  streams  at  home  ;  fancy  the  gnarled  tops  of 
the  oaks,  and  the  lithe  tops  of  the  elms,  all  knit  together  by  some  giant 
hand,  and  the  interlacing  of  the  boughs  tied  over  with  garlands ; —fancy 
birds  humming  to  your  ear  in  the  arbour-wrought  branches,  and  the 


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16  THE  COUNTRY  TOWNS 

gold  sunlighi  streaming  through  the  intersticefl^  upon  the  flower-spotted 
turf, — and  the  whole  bearing  away  in  long  perspective  to  an  arched  spot 
of  blue  sky,  with  streaks  of  white  cloud,  that  seems  the  wicket  of  Ely- 
sium. Then  fancy  the  whole, — tree-trunks,  branches,  garlands,  trans- 
formed to  stone— each  leaf  perfect,  but  hard  as  rock ;— fancy  the  bird- 
singing  the  warbling  of  an  organ — the  turf  turned  to  marble,  and  in 
place  of  flowers,  the  speckles  of  light  coming  through  stained  glass, — in 
place  of  the  mottled  sky  at  the  end  of  the  view,  a  painted  scene  of  glory 
warmed  by  the  sunlight  streaming  through  it, — and  you  have  before  you 
the  Cathedral  of  St  John. 

In  front  of  the  doors,  you  may  climb  up  the  dirty  and  steep  alleys  of 
the  working  quarter  of  the  town ;  and  you  will  hear  the  shuttle  of  the 
silk-weayers  plying  in  the  dingy  houses,  six  stories  from  the  ground. 
The  faces  one  sees  at  the  doors  and  windows  are  pale  and  smutted,  and 
the  air  of  the  close  filthy  streets,  reminds  one  of  the  old  town  of  Edin- 
burgh. The  men,  too,  wear  the  same  look  of  desperation  in  their  faces, 
and  scowl  at  you,  as  if  they  thought  you  had  borne  a  part  in  the  rueful 
scenes  of  '94. 

The  guillotine  even  did  not  prove  itself  equal  to  the  bloody  work  of 
that  date ;  and  men  and  women  were  tied  to  long  cables,  and  shot  down 
in  file  !  A  little  expiatory  chapel  stands  near  the  scene  of  this  whole- 
sale  slaughter,  where  old  women  drop  down  on  their  knees  at  noon,  and 
say  prayers  for  murdered  husbands  and  murdered  fathers. 

llie  Rhone  borders  the  city ;  the  Saone  rolls  boldly  through  it  and 
each  of  its  sides  are  bordered  with  princely  buildings ;  and  on  a  f^te 
day  the  quays  and  bridges  throng  with  the  population  turned  loose, — 
the  cafes  upon  the  Pl&ce  des  Celestins  are  thronged,  and  not  a  spare 
box  of  dominoes,  or  an  empty  billiard- table,  can  be  found  in  the  city* 

The  great  Pl&ce  de  Bellecour,  that  looked  so  desolate  the  mourning  of 
my  arrival,  is  bustling  with  moving  people  at  noon.  The  great  bulk  of 
the  Post  Office  lies  ^onff  its  western  edge,  and  the  colossal  statue  of 
Louis  XIV.  is  riding  his  norse  in  the  middle.  The  poor  king  was  dis- 
mounted in  the  days  of  La  LiberU,  and  an  inscription  upon  the  base 
commemorates  what  would  seem  an  unpalatable  truth,  that  what  popular 
frenzy  destroyed,  popular  repentance  renews ; — not  single  among  the 
strange  evidences  one  meets  with  at  every  turn,  of  the  versatility  of  the 
French  nation. 

Lyons  has  its  humble  pretensions  to  antiquity ;  but  the  Lu^unensem 
a/ram  of  Roman  date,  has  come  to  be  spilled  over  with  human  blood, 
instead  of  ink ;  making  fourfold  true  the  illustration  of  Juvenal: — 

*^  Aodpiat,  sane  meroedem  sanguinis  et  sic 
Palleat,  ut  nudis  press! t  qui  caldbus  angaem, 
Aut  Lugdunensem  rhetor  dioturus  ad  aram.** 

Juv.  Sat,  I,  y.  42,  €t  9eq, 

There  is  an  island  in  the  river,  not  far  from  the  city  where  Charle- 
magne is  said  to  have  had  a  country  seat ; — if  so,  it  was  honourable  to 
the  old  gentleman's  taste,  for  the  spot  is  as  beautiful  as  a  dream  ;  and 
Sundays  and  fke  days,  the  best  of  the  Lyons  population  throng  under 
its  graceful  trees,  and  linger  there  to  see  the  sun  go  down  in  crimson 
and  gold,  across  the  hills  that  peep  out  of  the  further  shore  of  the 
Rhone. 


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17 


PARA;  OR,  SCENES  AND  ADVENTURES  ON  THE 
BANKS  OF  THE  AMAZON. 

BT  J.   B.  WABBBN. 

*<  Regions  immense^  uD&aurchable,  unknown, 

Baak  in  the  tplenidoiir  of  the  lolar  tone.*'    Mohtoovxet. 

CHAPTBR   III. 
Remoral  to  the  Roeoenia  de  Nasere. — Curious  Monument. — Charming  Garden. — 
Chico. — Variety  of  Fruits. — Pine-apples  and  Bananas. — ^A  dreamy  Siesta. — 
First  Hunt  in  the  Forest. — An  old  Ruin. — A  Monkey  Adventure. 

A  FEW  days  after  my  arriyal  at  Para,  as  I  was  promenading  the  streets 
one  morning,  I  was  suddenly  accosted  by  a  familiar  yoice,  and^  looking  up^ 
whom  shoold  I  see  but  an  old  schoolmate  of  mine,  comfortably  seated  on 
the  balcony  of  a  large  stone  house^  quietly  smoking  his  fragrant  cigar. 

It  was  truly  a  pleasure  thus  unexpectedly  to  meet  a  weU-knownface 
in  a  strange  land,  especially  when  bkonging  to  so  generous  a  friend,  as 
this  young  man  forwards  proved  himself  to  be. 

Shaking  me  cordially  by  the  hand,  he  insisted  upon  taking  us  in  and 
introducing  us  to  his  fether,  who  was  one  of  the  richest  and  most  influ- 
ential men  in  the  city.  The  old  g^itleman  appeared  to  be  glad  to  see 
us,  and  treated  us  with  a  yast  deal  of  politeness.  We  talked  to  him  about 
America,  and  Portugal,  and  Brazil,  and  he  in  return  told  us  quite  a 
number  of  interesting  stories  and  incidents  connected  with  the  province. 
He  was  a  Portuguese  by  birth,  but  had  been  a  resident  of  Brazil  for 
upwards  of  twenty  years. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Darim  (for  this  was  the  gentleman's  name)  under- 
stood that  we  had  come  out  to  Brazil  for  the  sake  of  our  health,  and  of 
pursuing  the  study  of  natural  history,  he  very  kindly  offered  us  the  en- 
tire control  of  a  charming  country-seat  of  his,  situated  within  a  mile  of 
the  dty,  called  ^  The  Roscenia  de  Nazere.'*  As  this  estate  was  just  on 
the  borders  of  the  forest,  and  therefore  well  located  for  the  collection 
of  birds  and  other  natunl  curiosities,  we  of  course  did  not  hesitate  to 
accept  Mr.  Darim's  noble  offer. 

In  two  or  three  days,  haying  made  all  necessary  arrangements,  bought 
our  provisions,  and  hired  a  cook,  we  took  our  departure  for  Nazere. 

An  odd  spectacle  we  presented  in  walking  out  to  the  Roscenia.  We 
had  chartered  ten  or  twelve  blacks  to  carry  out  our  luggage,  each  of 
whom  was  loaded  with  some  item  of  provisions  or  of  luggage.  One  had 
a  sack  of  beans,  another  a  hamper  of  potatoes,  while  a  third  carried  a 
large  basket  of  farinha  poised  upon  his  head.  We  ourselves  marched 
along  in  the  rear,  with  our  trusty  guns  mounted  on  our  shoulders  and 
long  wood-knives  gleaming  in  our  hands. 

Scarcely  had  we  proceeded  beyond  the  limits  of  the  city,  when  we 
were  encompassed  by  a  strange  and  magnificent  yegetation.  Groups  of 
|w]m  trees,  with  their  tall  stems  and  feather-like  branches,  were  waying 
in  the  distance,  while  plants  of  curious  form,  and  bushes  teeming  wi£ 
flowers,  surrounded  us  on  every  side. 

The  scenery  of  the  Largo  da  Pclvera  (over  which  we  passed  in  our 
route)  was  yery  picturesque  and  fine.  A  row  of  low  cottages  ran  along 
one  side,  fronted  by  a  narrow  walk.  These  little  habitations  were  te- 
nanted by  blacks  and  Indians,  and  had  quite  a  neat  and  pretty  appear- 
ance.     On  the  opposite  side,  at  the  distance  of  several  hundred  yards> 

YOL.   XZIII.  o 


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18  para;  or, 

the  forest  commeDced^  dotted  here  and  there  along  its  margin  by  hand- 
some little  cottages  peeping  from  amid  the  thick  foliage  around  them. 

Having  crossed  the  Largo,  we  pursued  our  way  through  a  rich  de- 
file of  shrubbery,  until  we  finally  emerged  into  another  beautiful  and 
extensive  clearing,  called  the  "  Largo  de  Nazere/* 

The  first  object  that  arrested  our  attention  was  an  antique-looking 
monument  built  of  wood,  standing  at  the  very  entrance  of  the  Largo. 
Our  curiosity  being  excited,  we  inquired  of  a  gentleman  who  accompa- 
nied us  for  what  purpose  it  was  erected.  In  reply  he  told  us  the  follow- 
ing anecdote : — Many  years  ago,  a  certain  president  of  the  province,  who 
was  rambling  in  the  woods  in  quest  of  game,  became  lost  in  the  dense 
mazes  of  the  forest.  For  three  long  days  he  wandered  disconsolately 
about,  in  vain  seeking  for  some  avenue  by  which  he  might  effect  his  es- 
cape. Nearly  famished  for  want  of  food,  hope  had  almost  deserted  him  ; 
when,  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  a  sound  like  that  of  the  tink- 
ling of  a  distant  bell  broke  upon  his  ear.  He  listened — again  he  heard 
that  cheerful  sound,  more  clear  and  strong.  Re-animated  by  the  mime 
of  the  bell,  he  bent  his  steps  in  the  direction  from  whence  the  melodt/ 
seemed  to  proceed,  for  melody  indeed  it  was  to  him.  Pressing  on,  he 
at  last  issued  from  the  forest  near  the  spot  where  the  monument  now 
stands ;  hence  its  origin. 

There  was  quite  a  number  of  native  dwellings  on  the  Largo,  and 
near  the  centre  of  it  a  pretty  little  church,  with  a  kind  of  portico  built 
out  in  front.  We  observed  that  the  natives,  whenever  they  passed  this 
church,  were  accustomed  to  render  deference  to  it  by  falling  down  on 
their  knees  and  crossing  themselves.  To  such  an  extent,  and  still  great- 
er, is  superstition  rife  in  this  sun-favoured  clime. 

We  at  length  arrived  at  the  stone-gateway  of  the  Roscenia ;  a  slave 
opened  the  iron  door  and  we  entered.  A  long  avenue,  formed  by  the 
overhanging  of  the  trees  on  either  side,  was  before  us,  through  which  we 
saw  the  dwelling-house  of  the  garden,  almost  concealed  by  the  foliage, 
standing  at  the  distance  of  seventy-five  or  a  hundred  yards  from  us. 
The  mansion  was  large,  of  but  one  story  in  height,  covered  with  earth- 
enware tiles,  and  surrounded  by  a  wide  and  roof-covered  verandah. 

Under  the  commodious  verandah  we  rested  ourselves,  and  regaled  our 
palates  with  rare  fruit  plucked  fresh  from  the  well-laden  trees  of  the 
garden.  We  then  began  to  attend  to  domestic  affairs,  and  much  did  we 
feel  the  want  of  a  nice  little  Fayaway  to  take  charge  of  these  important 
matters  for  us.  Just  as  we  had  swung  our  hammocks,  stowed  away  our 
provisions,  and  put  our  guns  and  ammunition  in  readiness  for  immediate 
use,  our  cook  rang  the  bell  for  dinner. 

*^  Pray,  why  did  she  not  call  you?"  methinks  I  hear  some  one  in- 
quire ;  well,  then,  it  was  because  she  could  not  speak  English  nor  we 
Portuguese,  if  you  must  know,  curious  reader.  We  were  obliged  to 
communicate  our  ideas  to  her  by  pantomime ;  and  it  is  a  g^reat  wonder 
to  us,  now  that  we  think  of  it,  that  we  ever  got  anything  to  eat  at  alL 
Chico — this,  I  believe,  was  her  name,  at  least,  we  called  her  so, — 
was  an  excellent  and  experienced  cook ;  but  she  was  a  slave,  and  we  had 
hired  her  from  her  fair  mistress  in  the  city. 

Under  the  tuition  of  Chico,  and  the  absolute  necessity  which  there 
was  for  us  either  to  speak  or  to  starve,  we  began  to  acquire  the  language 
with  amazing  rapidity,  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  we  were  able  to 
^axvy  on  quite  a  ponversation  with  the  pretty  Indian  damsels,  who  daily 


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ADVENTURES  ON  THE  AMAZON.  19 

visited  us  at  the  Roscenia.  The  grounds  of  the  Rosceuia  were  extensiye 
aud  as  enchanting  as  those  of  Eden  ;  the  garden  was  well  supplied  with 
the  choicest  fruit-trees  and  with  the  most  beautiful  flowers.  The  walks 
were  wide  and  well-gravelled ;  on  either  side  of  them  were  rows  of  trees, 
bending  over  with  the  weight  of  their  golden  and  crimson  fruity  thus 
forming  a  fairy-like  arbour  of  green  throughout  the  entire  avenue. 

The  variety  of  fruits  seemed  infinite.  Here  was  a  little  grove  of 
orange-trees  clustering  together;  there,  a  collection  of  g^uavaz  bacata 
and  ruby-tinged  cushew-trees  tastefully  arranged  along  the  walk. 

Delectable  pine- apples  also  grew  in  the  garden.  This  fine  fruit  is 
called  by  the  natives  **  anana."  It  arrives  at  great  perfection  in  the  pro- 
vince, and  is  justly  deemed  one  of  the  richest  of  all  tropical  fruits.  Spe- 
cimens of  this  fruit  have  been  brought  to  the  Para  market  weighing 
near  twenty  pounds.  So  delicious  is  its  natural  flavour,  and  such  its 
sweetness  when  perfectly  ripe,  that  no  sugar  b  required  in  eating  it  It 
is  hardly  necessary  to  state,  that  it  grows  by  itself  on  a  single  stem,  sur« 
rounded  by  a  bed  of  large  and  spear-like  leaves. 

**  Its  luicioas  fruit  Anana  rears. 
Amid  a  coronet  of  spears.*' 

Perhaps  the  most  conspicuous  vegetable  curiosity  that  grew  in  the 
garden  was  the  far-famed  banana  plant  This  shrub  has  been  much  ex- 
tolled by  travellers,  and  is  indeed  a  blessing  to  all  tropical  countries. 
It  attains  to  the  height  of  from  ten  to  twelve  feety  and  bears  large  clus- 
ters of  fruit,  oftentimes  weighing  more  than  fifty  pounds.  The  bananas 
are  of  a  yellow  colour  when  fully  ripe,  and  are  said  to  possess  more  nu- 
triment than  Mdy  other  species  of  fruit.  They  are  prepared  in  various 
modes.  Some  prefer  them  roasted ;  others,  again,  cut  them  into  slices, 
and  ^  them  with  butter :  but  we  ourselves  loved  them  best  in  their 
natural  state,  with  the  addition  of  a  little  port  wine  and  sugar,  as  a  kind 
of  sauce.     Eaten  in  this  manner,  they  are  exceedingly  fine. 

Having  spent  a  considerable  portion  of  our  first  afternoon  in  ram- 
bling about  the  Roscenia,  for  the  purpose  of  making  ourselves  acquaint- 
ed with  the  extent  and  products  of  our  miniature  Jkngdam^  we  returned 
to  the  house.  Supper  was  soon  prepared  for  us,  on  a  small  table  under 
the  verandah.  It  consisted  merely  of  bread,  butter,  and  chocolate ;  yet 
our  appetites  were  keen,  and  we  enjoyed  the  meal  as  well  as  if  there  had 
been  a  greater  variety.  After  all,  pleasure  of  every  description  depends 
mainly  on  the  condition  and  desire  of  the  recipient ;  and,  as  our  desires 
are  often  artificial,  it  necessarily  follows  that  the  pleasures  which  de- 
pend upon  them  are  often  unnatural  and  artificial  also. 

Having  concluded  our  evening  meal,  and  being  rather  fatigued  with 
the  exercise  we  had  undergone,  and  excitement  we  had  experienced 
during  the  day,  we  threw  ourselves  in  our  suspended  hammocks,  lighted 
a  choice  cigar,  and  took  a  refreshing  Heata*  Dreamy  visions  came  o'er 
us.  Here  we  were  at  last,  in  the  lovely  land  we  had  so  long  desired  to 
see, — sole  tenants  of  an  estate,  which  for  beauty  and  variety  surpassed 
any  we  had  ever  seen  before.  True,  we  were  alone,  and  on  the  very 
borders  of  a  boundless  wilderness ;  but,  we  soon  found  sufficient  compa- 
nionship in  the  natural  beauties  by  which  we  were  surrounded, — in  the 
trees,  tne  plants,  the  flowers ;  and,  most  of  all,  the  joyous,  bright-winged 
birds  I  They  chiefly  were  our  solace  and  delight  Before  and  around 
us,  Nature  seemed  clothed  in  her  fairest  charms.     Gay  flowers  bloomed 

c  2 


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20  PARA  ;   OR, 

amid  the  shrubbery ;  birds  sang  and  chattered  among  the  trees ;  a  soli- 
tary  cocoarnut  was  shaking  its  plume-like  branches  in  the  sweet-scented 
breeze^  and  stood  like  a  sentinel  just  before  the  porch.  Our  thoughts 
wandered  back  to  our  home  and  friends — far — ^far  away.  Could  our 
parents  but  visit  us  here,  but  for  one  short  hour,  how  truly  happy  would 
we  be  I — with  what  delight  would  they  enter  the  iron  gateway  I — ^how 
fascinated  would  they  be  with  the  beauty  of  the  garden  I — ^how  like 
Paradise  would  everything  appear ! — and,  with  what  ecstasy  would  we 
receive  them  I  All  this  passed  through  our  minds  as  we  lay  swinging 
in  our  hammocks,  under  the  tree-shaded  verandah  of  Nazere. 

Awaking  from  the  stupor  into  which  we  had  fallen,  we  perceived  that 
the  sun  had  just  gone  down,  leaving  a  delicate  linge  of  gold  along  the 
western  horizon ;  the  stars  were  beginning  to  gleam  in  the  cloudless  sky 
above,  and  to  illumine  with  a  mellow  light  the  bewitching  scenery  around 
us.     Silence  reigned,  giving  solemnity  to  the  beauteous  scene. 

On  the  following  morning  we  were  aroused  from  our  slumbers  at  least 
ah  hour  before  sunrise  by  the  noisy  chattering  of  the  birds  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  house.  We  accoutred  ourselves  speedily  in  our  shooting  cos- 
tumes, drank  a  strong  cup  of  coffee,  and  sallied  forth,  in  company  with 
an  Indian  g^ide,  on  our  first  hunting  expedition  in  a  tropical  forest. 

We  had  advanced  a  considerable  distance  in  the  woods,  when  the  sun 
arose  from  his  golden  couch  in  the  east,  and  shed  a  flood  of  light  over 
the  sylvan  landscape.  The  dew  glittered  like  jewels  on  the  leaves ;  in- 
sects began  to  animate  the  atmosphere,  and  gorgeous-plumaged  birds  to 
fly  from  tree  to  tree.  The  path  we  had  taken  was  extremely  narrow, 
and  so  choked  up  with  weeds  and  running  vines,  that  we  were  obliged  to 
cut  a  passage  before  us  with  our  **  tracados,*^  or  wood-knives,  as  we  slow- 
ly and  cautiously  proceeded.  These  long  knives  are  absolutely  indis- 
pensable to  one  travelling  in  a  Brazilian  forest ;  in  fact,  everybody  yoo 
meet  with,  blacks,  Indians,  women,  and  children,  will  be  found  principal- 
ly to  be  provided  with  them. 

Stopping  now  and  then  for  a  moment,  to  shoot  a  toucan,  or  other  bril- 
liant bird  that  attracted  our  notice,  we  at  last  arrived  at  an  old  and  di- 
lapidated estate,  literally  buried  in  the  wilderness.  Here  was  a  vast 
ruin,  of  solid  stone,  which  had  evidently  been  once  a  splendid  building, 
of  superior  architecture.  It  was  overgrown  with  moss  and  creeping 
vines,  and  tenanted  only  by  bats  and  venomous  reptiles;  yet  it  was 
majestic  and  interesting  even  in  its  decay.  Concerning  the  origin  of 
this  strange  building  we  were  never  able  to  ascertain  anything  of  a  satis- 
factory nature.  Some  suppose  it  was  the  residence  of  a  certain  English 
or  Portuguese  nobleman,  by  the  name  of  Chermont ;  others,  that  it  was 
a  kind  of  fortification ;  while  many  think  that  it  was  one  of  the  religious 
institutions  of  the  Jesuits,  who  were  quite  numerous  in  the  province 
many  years  ago.  But  these  are  nothing  more  than  surmises.  The  truth 
is,  there  is  a  mystery  hanging  over  it  which  no  one  has  ever  been  able 
to  unravel,  and  which  will  undoubtedly  remain  a  mystery  for  ever  !  We 
spent  an  hour  or  more  in  examining  the  ruin,  and  were  rewarded  for  our 
researches  by  finding  several  new  and  valuable  shells,  which  we  careftilly 
preserved. 

Leaving  this  place,  we  next  visited  the  Pedrara,  another  estate  several 
miles  distant,  situated,  too,  in  the  midst  of  the  forest.  Here  we  found  a 
thriving  garden,  and  a  pleasant- looking  farm-house,  the  inmates  of 
which  received  us  very  hospitably.    Joaquim,  our  Indian  guide,  in  con- 


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ADVENTURES  ON  THE  AMAZON.  21 

▼erting  with  the  proprietor  of  the  house,  took  my  gun  from  my  hand,  for 
the  purpose  of  pointing  out  to  him  its  various  adrantages  and  virtues. 
In  so  doing  he  carelessly  raised  the  hammer,  which  immediately  slipped 
from  his  grasp,  and  the  gun,  which  was  well  charged  at  the  time  with 
coarse  shot,  exploded,  lodging  its  contents  in  the  side  of  the  buildings — 
fortunately,  however,  no  one  was  injured.  Soon  after  this  occurrence, 
which  occasioned  but  little  excitement,  our  kind  host  placed  before  us 
several  kinds  of  fruit,  and  a  bowl  of  refreshing  beverage  prepared  from 
the  cocoa  fruit,  with  which  we  heartily  regaled  ourselves.  We  then 
bade  our  entertainer  and  his  pretty  daughters  '*  adeos,"  and  proceeded 
back  towards  the  Roscenia. 

As  we  were  sauntering  along  the  arched  avenues  leading  through  the 
forest,  and  listening  attentively  to  the  notes  of  curious  birt^  we  heard  a 
loud  chattering  in  one  of  the  trees  over  our  heads.  Looking  upwards, 
we  perceived  two  large  monkeys  on  the  very  top  of  a  prodigiously  tall 
tree.  No  sooner  did  the  animals  see  us  than  they  hid  themselves  so 
completely  in  the  thick  foliage  that  it  was  impossible  for  us  to  discern 
them  at  alL  We  fired  several  shots  up  into  the  tree,  but  without  any 
manifest  efiect  At  last  our  Indian  guide,  perceiving  that  all  other 
means  would  be  useless,  came  to  the  deliberate  determination  of  climb- 
ing the  tree.  Encircling  the  trunk,  like  the  folds  of  a  serpent,  was  an 
enormous  winding  vine,  which  ran  up  into  the  topmost  branches.  Thu 
species  of  vine  has  been  called  by  travellers  **  The  monkey's  ladder." 
Having  stripped  to  the  buff,  Joaquim  took  my  double-barreled  gun  in 
his  hand,  and  by  means  of  the  *<  ladder  "  began  to  ascend  the  tree  with 
the  ease  and  agility  of  a  squirrel.  We  watched  his  progress  with  the 
greatest  anxietv,  for  it  appeared  to  us  an  experiment  hazardous  in  the 
extreme ;  but  he  bravely  and  nimbly  continued  his  dangerous  ascent, 
and  finally  waved  his  hand  in  triumph  from  the  summit  of  the  lofty  tree. 
New  diflculties  now  beset  him, — the  branches  were  so  closely  matted 
together  that  he  was  severely  scratched  by  their  sharp  points,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  he  could  get  himself  and  gun  in  manageable  order  for 
attacking  the  garrulous  animals.  Succeeding  in  securing  a  safe  position 
in  a  notch  of  the  tree,  he  got  a  glimpse  of  the  monkeys,  away  out  on 
the  extremity  of  a  long  branch,  almost  hid  from  view  by  the  thickness 
of  the  leaves.  Raising  his  gun,  he  took  steady  aim,  and  two  startling 
reports,  quickly  succeeding  each  other,  broke  suddenly  upon  the  stillness 
of  the  forest  The  two  monkeys  fell,  with  a  heavy  crash,  lifeless  to 
the  ground.  They  were  large  specimens,  of  a  silvery-grey  colour. 
Having  picked  them  up,  we  waited  until  Joaquim  had  descended  from 
the  tree,  and  then  proceeded  on  our  way. 

It  was  mid-day  when  we  reached  Nasere.  Eagerly  we  sought  the 
cool  shades  of  the  Roscenia,  and  in  the  evening  we  refreshed  ourselves 
with  a  delicious  bath  in  a  neighbouring  stream. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Old  Vincenti  and  Maria. — Cattigation  of  a  Woman. — Visitors  at  Nazert.— Our 
Neighbours.  —  Feathered  Companions.  —  Tame  Macaw.  —  Depredation  of  the 
Ants,— A  noctumaJ  Visit  from  them. — The  Largo  by  Moonlight. 

Thssb  was  a  venerable  old  slave  at  the  Roscenia,  by  the  name  of 
Vincenti,  who  made  himself  very  useful  to  us,  and  added  considerably 
to  our  amusement,  by  his  eccentricities  and  peculiarities.  He  had  lived 
on  the  place  for  more  than  thirty  years,  and  was  well  acquainted  with 


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22  para;  or, 

every  variety  of  bird,  insect,  and  reptile,  tbat  was  to  be  found  in  its  vi- 
cinity. Sciu*cely  a  day  passed  by  without  his  bringing  us  several  speci- 
mens of  lizards,  beetles,  or  centipedes.  The  latter  are  quite  numerous 
in  the  garden ;  and  I  remember  one  evening  that  we  caught  two  of  these 
many-legged  "  monsters  "  crawling  leisurely  about  the  floor  of  our  sleep- 
ing-apartment. They  were  at  least  eight  inches  in  length,  and  as  ugly- 
looking  fellows  of  the  kind  as  I  ever  saw.  We  succeeded  in  capturing 
them  by  the  aid  of  a  long  pair  of  pinchers,  and  in  putting  them  alive  into 
a  bottle  of  alcohol  for  preservation ;  and  we  have  them  to  this  day  in 
our  cabinet, ''  spirittud"  mementos  of  the  past 

But,  to  proceed.  It  seems  that  old  Vincenti,  notwithstanding  his  age 
and  manifold  infirmities,  had  some  of  the  fire  of  youth  still  burning  in 
his  veins.  Living  with  him  was  a  very  good-looking  mulatto  woman,  by 
the  name  of  Maria,  who  could  not  have  lived  more  than  twenty-five 
years  at  most,  while  Vincenti  himself  had  seen  above  sixty.  How  the 
old  fellow  ever  prevailed  on  her,  a  free  woman,  to  live  with  him,  will 
ever  remain  to  us  a  sealed  mystery.  Although  they  had  never  been 
married,  yet  no  iiusband  was  ever  more  affectionate  than  Vincenti,  or 
wife  more  loving  than  Maria.  The  latter  was  daily  accustomed  to  go  to 
the  city  for  provisions,  and  sometimes  she  took  her  place  among  the 
fruit-vendors  of  the  market  In  this  way  she  made  herself  useful  to  her 
lord  and  master,  Vincenti.  One  day,  however,  she  did  not  return  to  the 
Roscenia.  Old  Vincenti  was  quite  uneasy,  and  thought  something  se- 
rious must  have  happened.  A  week  passed  by ;  but  still  no  news  from 
Maria.  At  length,  dreadful  suspicions  began  to  flash  over  the  mind  of 
old  Vincenti,  and  fierce  jealousy  to  agitate  his  mind.  One  morning,  as  we 
were  sipping  our  coffee  under  the  verandah,  the  shri^s  of  a  woman,  as 
if  in  distress,  fell  upon  our  ears.  Suspecting  the  cause,  we  rushed  im- 
mediately to  thcf  little  dwelling  of  \^ncenti,  and  there  found  him,  as 
we  had  anticipated,  beating  Maria,  his  prodigal  mistress,  in  a  most  un- 
merciful manner.  He  was  furious  with  anger;  but  we  expostulated 
with  him,  and  having  prevailed  on  him  to  discontinue  the  castigation, 
we  succeeded  in  effecting  a  reconciliation  between  the  parties, —  and 
all  this  with  a  scanty  knowledge  of  the  language,  rendered  intelligible 
only  by  the  pantomime  with  which  we  accompanied  it.  In  a  few  hours 
Vincenti  and  his  buxom  consort  were  again  in  fellowship  with  each  other, 
and  as  happy  and  contented  as  in  days  of  yore.  Thus  do  pleasant  calms 
succeed  the  severest  storms  I 

The  visitors  to  Nazere  were  numerous,  therefore  we  had  no  lack  of 
society.  At  the  close  of  every  day  our  hunters  would  come  in,  bringing 
with  Uiem  singrular  animals  and  beautiful  birds,  which  they  had  killed  in 
the  forest.  Frequently  they  would  spend  the  evening  with  us,  giving  us 
an  account  of  the  wonders  and  curiosities  of  the  surrounding  wild  woods. 
On  Sundays  many  persons  generally  came  out  from  the  city,  and  the 
military  paraded  on  the  Largo  in  front  of  the  Roscenia.  Our  neighbours 
were  mostly  blacks  and  Indians.  Among  the  latter,  two  pretty  maids, 
Mariquinha  and  Lorena,  were  our  especial  favourites.  These  were 
young  and  charming  mamelukes,  or  halif-breeds,  with  dark  eyes,  luxuri- 
ant hair,  and  light-olive  complexions.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  believe  we 
were  principally  indebted  to  these  lovely  damsels  for  the  rapid  proficiency 
which  we  made  in  the  language. 

But  I  must  not  forget  to  meution  the  feathered  companions  who 
shared  with  us  the  pleasures  of  Nazere.    These  consisted  of  several  do- 


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ADYENTURES  ON  THE  AMAZON.  23 

mesticated  parrots,  a  pair  of  roseate  spoonbills,  and  a  solitary  macaw. 
The  last-named  bird  was  a  very  gorgeous  fellow,  with  a  handsome  tail, 
above  two  feet  in  length,  beauti&lly  marked  with  blue  and  red.  During 
the  day  he  was  accustomed  to  spend  many  of  the  hours  in  rambling 
throDgh  the  embowered  avenues  of  the  garden,  and  in  climbing  succes- 
sively the  different  fruit-trees,  which  were  drooping  with  the  weight  of 
their  red  and  yellow  fruit  But,  whenever  he  heard  our  voices  calling 
him,  he  instantly  abandoned  the  sweetest  orange  or  most  delicious  guana, 
to  make  his  appearance  before  us.  He  was  an  awkward  bird  in  his  mo- 
tions, and  occasioned  us  a  great  deal  of  merriment.  It  was  enough  to 
disturb  the  gravity  of  a  confirmed  misanthrope  to  see  our  macaw  per- 
ambulating by  himself  around  the  piazza  of  Nazere. 

Whenever  the  bell  rang  for  either  breakfast  or  dinner,  Mr.  Macaw 
immediately  wended  his  way  to  the  banquet- table,  and  having  perched 
himself  upon  the  back  of  one  of  the  chairs,  waited  patiently  for  the  ar- 
rival of  us — his  humble  servants.  In  justice  to  his  memory,  be  it  said, 
that  he  always  conducted  himself  with  perfect  decorum  while  at  table, 
and  never  on  any  occasion  made  any  sudden  onslaught  upon  the  viands 
which  were  laid  out  in  tempting  array  before  him.  Finally,  our  long- 
taile<1  companion  died ;  and  for  a  time  we  felt  bereaved  indeed. 

One  day  an  Indian  brought  us  a  live  coral  snake,  the  fangs  of  which 
had  been  carefully  extracted.  The  reptile  was  about  three  feet  in 
length,  and  was  regularly  banded  with  alternate  rings  of  black,  scarlet, 
and  yellow.  If  the  idea  of  **  beautiful  "  can  be  associated  with  a  snake, 
then  did  this  one  well  deserve  the  qualification,  for  a  more  striking  com- 
bination of  colours  I  think  I  never  saw.  For  the  sake  of  security,  we 
put  the  animal  in  a  small  wooden  box,  and  placed  it  in  one  of  the  cor- 
ners of  the  room  where  we  slept  One  night,  while  we  were  asleep,  the 
animal  forced  off  the  top  of  the  box  in  which  he  was  confined,  and,  in 
travelling  about,  at  last  found  his  way  into  the  cook's  room.  Aroused 
by  her  screams,  we  hastened  to  her  apartment,  and  there  discovered  the 
cause  of  her  alarm.  But  the  animal  had  escaped  through  a  crevice  in 
the  floor,  and  we  never  saw  his  snakeship  again. 

We  experienced  a  g^eat  deal  of  annoyance  from  the  ants  at  Nazere. 
These  insects  swarm  in  myriads  in  the  forest,  and  may  be  seen  crawling 
on  the  ground  wherever  you  may  happen  to  be.  They  subserve  a  very 
useful  purpose  in  the  wise  economy  of  nature,  by  preventing  the  natural 
decay  and  putrefaction  of  vegetable  matter,  so  particularly  dangerous  in 
tropical  regions ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  they  are  a  serious  drawback  to 
the  prosecution  of  agricultural  pursuits,  and  to  the  cause  of  civilization 
in  the  torrid  zone.  Flourishing  plantations  are  sometimes  entirely  de- 
stroyed by  these  insects ;  and  we  ourselves  have  seen  a  beautiful  orange- 
tree^  one  day  blooming  in  the  greatest  luxuriance,  and  on  the  next  per- 
fectly leafless  and  bare  I 

>^thing  is  more  interesting  than  to  see  an  army  of  ants  engaged  in 
divesting  a  tree  of  its  foliage.  In  doing  so,  they  manifest  an  intuitive 
system  and  order  which  is  truly  surprising.  A  reg^ular  file  is  continual- 
ly ascending  on  one  side  of  the  trunk,  while  another  is  descending  on 
the  opposite  side,  each  one  of  the  ants  bearing  a  piece  of  a  leaf,  of  the 
size  of  a  sixpence,  in  his  mouth.  A  large  number  appear  to  be  station- 
ed among  the  upper  branches,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  biting  off  the  stems 
of  the  leaves,  and  thus  causing  them  to  fall  to  the  ground.  At  the  foot 
of  the  tree  is  another  department,  whose  business  is  evidently  that  of 


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24  ADVENTURES  ON  THE  AMAZON. 

cutting  the  fallen  leaves  into  small  pieces  for  transportation.  A  long 
procession  is  kept  constantly  marching  away  towards  their  settlement, 
laden  with  the  leaves.  Verily,  wisdom  may  be  learned  even  from  the  ants  I 

Mr.  Kidder  states  that,  some  years  ago,  the  ants  entered  one  of  the 
convents  at  Maranham,  who  not  only  devoured  the  drapery  of  the 
altars,  but  also  descended  into  the  graves  beneath  the  floor  and  brought 
up  several  small  pieces  of  linen  ^m  the  shrouds  of  the  dead ;  for  this 
offence  the  friars  commenced  an  ecclesiastical  prosecution,  the  result  of 
which,  however,  we  did  not  ascertain.  Mr.  Southey  says,  in  relation  to 
these  destructive  insects,  "  that  having  been  convicted  in  a  similar  suit  at 
the  Franciscan  convent  at  Avignon,  they  were  not  only  excommunicated 
from  the  Roman  Catholic  apostolic  church,  but  were  sentenced  by  the 
friars  to  a  place  of  removal,  within  three  days,  to  a  place  assigned  them 
in  the  centre  of  the  earth.  The  canonical  account  gravely  adds,  that 
the  ants  obeyed,  and  carried  away  all  their  young  and  all  their  stores  I" 

Concerning  the  ants,  however,  we  have  a  story  of  our  own  to  tell. 
The  occurrence  took  place  at  Nazere,  and  was  in  this  wise.  One  night, 
while  indulging  in  delightful  dreams,  I  was  suddenly  awakened  by  my 
amiable  companion,  who  affirmed  that  something  was  biting  him  severe- 
ly— he  knew  not  what  Being  well  wrapped  up  in  my  hammock,  no 
wonder  that  I  did  not  feel  the  bites  of  which  he  complained. 

In  the  deep  silence  of  our  lonely  apartment  we  heard  distinctly  a 
sound  like  that  of  a  continual  dropping  of  something  upon  the  floor.  We 
were  uncertain  from  what  it  proceeded,  but  I  more  than  half  suspected 
the  true  cause,  but  said  nothing  to  my  companion  ;  on  the  contrary,  I 
even  endeavoured  to  convince  him  that  the  biting  of  which  he  complain- 
ed was  only  imaginary.  The  reality,  however,  of  his  sufferings  made 
him  proof  against  any  such  conviction,  and  he  forthwith  arose  and  light- 
ed a  lamp.  Its  glimmering  rays  shed  a  feeble  light  over  the  apartment, 
but  sufficient  to  disclose  a  spectacle  such  as  we  never  hope  to  see  again. 
The  floor  itself  was  literally  black  with  ants;  and  our  clothes,  which 
were  hanging  on  a  line  stretched  across  the  room,  were  alive  with  them. 
It  was  in  vain  for  us  to  attempt  to  remove  them,  so  we  removed  our- 
selves, and  spent  the  remainder  of  the  night  swinging  in  our  hammocks 
under  the  verandah !  But,  we  will  never  forget  that  night  should  we 
live  an  hundred  years  I 

Green  and  golden  hued  lizards  were  also  numerous  at  the  Roscenia, 
and  we  frequently  saw  them  in  the  midst  of  the  walk,  basking  in  the 
warm  sunshine,  their  glowing  tints  rivalling  in  lustre  the  bright  enamel 
of  the  flowers.  They  were  innocent  creatures,  exceedingly  timid,  and 
we  found  it  almost  impossible  to  catch  them  alive. 

On  one  side  of  the  entrance  gate  of  the  garden,  was  a  small  <*  sum- 
mer house,"  (as  it  would  be  called  in  England  or  America,)  from  which 
an  excellent  view  of  the  Largo  was  presented.  Nothing  could  exceed 
the  romantic  beauty  of  this  extensive  plot  of  ground  by  moonlight  I  A 
wild  forest  rises  up  around;  tall  palms  stand  like  faithful  sentinels 
watching  over  the  lovely  scene  I  The  little  church,  solitary  and  alone, 
seems  to  fill  the  mind  of  the  beholder  with  solemn  associations ;  the  low 
dwellings  of  the  natives,  shaded  by  overhanging  trees,  add  to  the  strange- 
ness of  the  landscape ;  and  the  **  southern  cross,"  gleaming  in  the  clear 
starry  firmament  above,  brings  to  mind  the  immense  distance  of  home, 
and  impresses  the  wanderer  with  emotions  of  love  and  sublimity,  such  as 
no  pen  can  adequately  describe  I 


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25 


AN   OLD   MAN'S   RECOLLECTIONS 

OT  THE 

PASTORAL  CANTONS  OF  SWITZERLAND. 
MDITSD  BT  MB8.  PBBOT  8INMBTT. 

It  is  now  more  than  fifty  yean  sinoe,*  on  a  dull  rainy  morning, 
and  in  a  mood  still  duller  and  gloomier  than  the  weather,  I  found 
mvself  on  the  shores  of  the  lake  of  Constance.  White  Tapours  were 
ndling  oyct  the  heads  of  the  enormous  masses  of  rock  that  rose  like 
mighty  walls  round  the  horizon ;  the  waters  of  the  lake,  lashed  into 
furv  by  the  gusts  of  wind,  rushed  along  at  their  feet  towards  the 
Talley  of  the  Kbine,  where  they  seemed  to  mingle  with  clouds  as  black 
as  midnight,  against  which  the  clear  green  colour  of  the  wares  in  the 
foreground,  with  their  crests  of  snowy  fbun,  looked  indescribably 
beautifiiL 

The  whole  aspect  of  nature  was  strange  and  new,  and  affected  me 
with  a  power  I  had  never  before  felt  from  external  things :  but  I  had 
scarcely  time  to  wonder  at  the  change,  which  with  magic  suddenness 
seemed  to  0}>erate  upon  my  mind,  when  my  carriage  rolled  over  the 
bridge  that  connects  the  island  of  Lindau  with  the  main  land,  and  the 
walls  of  the  city  soon  hid  the  whole  landscape  from  my  sight. 

The  castle  and  the  wall  called  the  Heiden  Mauer,  whose  strength  and 
thickness  bid  defiance  to  time^  carried  me  back  in  thought  to  those  dis- 
tant ages  when  the  heay  v  tramp  of  the  iron  men  of  Iu)me  first  broke 
the  stSlness  of  the  woodis  in  wnich  the  yet  unnamed  lake  lay  buried. 
But  it  was  not  solitude,  nor  the  gloom  of  boundless  forests,  nor  the 
bellowing  of  the  auer-ox  and  other  mighty  brutes  by  which  they  were 
tenanted,  nor  the  cries,  scarcely  less  terrible,  of  their  human  inhalutant^, 
nor  rocks  nor  glaciers,  nor  the  ice  and  snow  of  a  climate  that  appeared 
so  seyere  when  compared  with  that  of  their  own  glowing  land  that 
could  turn  bade  the  legions  from  a  settled  purpose.  Under  the  suid* 
ance  of  Drusus,  they  found  their  victorious  way  along  the  lUiine, 
leaving  one  fortress  after  another  to  mark  their  course,  and  on  the  spot 
which  is  now  Constance,  laid  the  foundations  of  their  Valeria;  there 
they  built  a  number  of  galleys,  with  which  to  traverse  these  unknown 
waters,  and  soon  the  dark  and  silent  woods  that  closed  it  in  were 
echoing  to  the  shouts  of  the  first  civilised  men  whose  vessels  had 
rippled  its  surface  since  its  creation. 

Tiberius  landed  on  the  island  now  called  Lindau,  built  a  fortress, 
and  prepared  here  his  warlike  expeditions  against  the  natives  of 
Rhoetia,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  lake,  who  had  often  rushed  down 
horn  their  mountains  upon  the  fertile  and  cultivated  lands  of  their 
Italian  neighbours.  He  conquered  them  after  a  six  years'  struggle,  and 
thence  he  opened  a  way  through  the  forest  into  the  heart  ofSuabia, 
where  he  established  his  extreme  outpost  to  watch  the  fierce  Alio* 
manni.     It  was  not,  however,  till  the  seventh  century,  that  a  few 

*  The  lapse  of  fifty,  we  might  almost  say  of  five  hundred  years,  has  made  so 
little  diaDge  in  the  mode  of  life  in  these  pastoral  cantons,  that  we  apprehend  the 
date  of  these  recollections  will  detract  little,  if  anything,  from  whatever  interest 
may  bdong  to  them. 


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26  EECOLLECnONS  OF  THE 

fiEiinilies  began  to  settle  on  the  shores  of  the  lake>  with  a  view  to  gain 
a  subsistence  by  cultivating  the  yet  yirgin  soiL-*The  people  of 
Schwytz,  Unterwalden^  and  the  other  pastoral  cantons  that  constitute 
the  very  heart  and  core  of  Switzerland,  sprang  originally  from  a  shoot 
thrown  out  by  the  grand  old  Scandinavian  tree.  In  a  parchment 
preserved  at  Ober  Hasle,  in  the  Canton  of  Berne>  there  is  a  record  of 
this  remarkable  immigration.  A  body  of  six  thousand  warlike  men 
had  been  thrown  off  at  a  swarm,  when  there  was  a  creat  famine,  from 
an  ancient  kingdom  far  to  the  north,  in  the  land  of  Uie  Swedes.  They 
divided  themselves  into  three  troops,  each  of  which  made  a  league 
among  themselves  to  hold  together  on  the  land  or  on  the  sea,  in  good 
fortune  or  bad  fortune,  in  joy  or  sorrow,  in  all  things  great  or  small 
which  God  should  send  them.  One  of  those,  under  the  guidance  of 
one  SckwUzerus,  after  many  adventures,  reached  the  upper  Rhine, 
*'  and  at  length  came  to  a  country  with  high  rocks  and  mountains  full  of 
valleys  and  lakes,  which  pleased  them,  for  it  was  like  the  old  country 
from  which  they  had  come." 

Here  they  settled,  calling  the  country  Schwitz,  from  their  leader 
Schwitzerus,  and  felled  the  forest,  and  built  huts,  and  kept  flocks, 
and  tilled  the  ground,  and  maintained  themselves  honourably  by  the 
sweat  of  their  brow,  and  kept  faithfully  to  one  another ;  and  their 
children  learned  handicrafts,  and  grew  up  to  be  men  '*  great  and  strong 
like  giants."  Our  old  friend  William  Tell  and  his  compeers  came  then, 
it  appears,  of  a  good  family. 

The  weather  cleared  up  in  the  afternoon,  on  the  day  of  my  arrival 
at  Lindau,  and  I  crossed  the  bridge  to  the  Bavarian  shore,  which  looked 
very  attractive  with  its  fruitful  hills  and  gardens  and  vineyards.  My 
guide  led  me  to  the  country-seat  of  a  Lindauer  patrician,  whence, 
through  a  telescope,  I  saw  plainly,  across  the  lake,  the  towers  of  the 
ancient  abbey  of  St.  Gkll,  and  several  pretty  little  towns  set  like 
gems  in  the  opposite  shore.  The  clouds  were  now  floating  in  a  higher 
region  of  the  atmosphere,  and  hid  none  but  the  loftiest  peaks ;  and  at  last 
the  sun  broke  through  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  beholding  the  moun- 
tains of  Appenzell,  the  chief  object  of  my  pilgrimage.  A  tremendous 
storm  appeared  however  to  be  raging  in  that  elevated  district.  Some- 
times high  ragged  peaks  would  seem  to  thrust  themselves  suddenly 
out  from  amidst  the  clouds,  and  the  thick  veil  would  sweep  off  and 
show  them  covered  with  glittering  ice  and  snow ;  and  then,  again,  it 
would  close,  leaving  the  imagination  perhaps  more  excited  by  these 
stolen  glimpses  than  if  the  whole  of  these  mighty  masses  had  been 
visible. 

After  a  long  battle  between  sun  and  storm,  the  sun  at  length 
obtained  the  mastery,  and,  pouring  out  a  flood  of  light,  took  possession 
of  the  whole  vast  landscape,  turning,  as  he  set,  the  surface  of  the 
lake  into  a  sea  of  crimson  lire.  Never  had  I  seen  so  magnificent  a 
spectacle. 

I  left  Lindau  on  the  following  morning  but  the  storm  and  wind  from 
the  west  was  still  raging  with  such  violence  over  the  lake,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  go  by  water  to  Constance,  as  I  had  intended.  The  beauty 
of  the  shore,  however,  along  which  the  road  lay,  made  me  ample 
amends  for  this  change  in  my  plan.  I  was  going  along  the  German 
side  to  Morsburg,  now  I  believe  in  Baden,  from  which  I  could  easily 
cross  over  to  Constance.  The  road  ran  sometimes  close  along  the 
margin,  sometimes  a  little  further  off,  but  through  corn  fields,  mea- 


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PASTORAL  CANTONS  OF  SWITZERLAND.       27 

dowg,  gentle  hills  clothed  with  Tinet^  aTennes  of  fruit  treei,  round 
whose  trunks  the  iyy  twined  its  picturesque  gsrlsnds ;  groves  of  fir, 
pretty  Tillagesy  and  little  towns  and  castles  in  endless  variety ;  and 
on  the  opposite  bank>  the  bolder  forms  of  the  mountains  and  the 
distant  snowy  peaks  proclaimed  the  wonderful  land  of  the  Swiss,  to 
which  I  was  bound. 

I  arrived  at  Morsburg  in  due  time,  but  not  a  man  could  be  found 
who  would  nut  me  across  the  lake,  as  it  would  be  scarcely  possible,  they 
said,  to  reach  Constance  in  safety  with  this  wind,  so  that  I  was  ftdn  to 
amuse  mvself  fOT  the  remainder  of  the  day  with  looking  at  the  Bi- 
shop's caoinet  of  shells ;  the  Bishop  of  Constance  I  mean,  who  has 
his  residence  here.  It  is  situated  upon  a  high  rocky  shore  which  fidls 
precipitously  to  the  lake,— here  many  hundred  feet  deep, — which, 
while  I  was  engaeed  with  the  shells,  was  dashing  furiously  against 
the  precipice,  ana  tossing  its  white  foam  many  rathoms  high,  while 
the  bosom  of  the  water  was  of  a  deep  blue  black. 

From  what  you  know  of  the  enthusiasm  with  which,  at  that  time  of 
my  life,  I  r^arded  the  form  of  sovemment  and  the  character  of  the  free 
pastoral  people  of  Switzerland  you  will  easily  believe  I  did  not  pass 
without  emotion  the  simple  wooden  bar  that  marked  the  frontier  of 
the  Canton  of  Appenzell.  Hitherto  my  road  had  lain,  as  I  have  said, 
through  corn-fields,  orchards,  and  vineyards ;  now  there  was  a  striking 
change  in  the  character  of  the  landscape.  There  was  no  longer  the 
same  variety  of  tint,  but  hill  rose  behind  hill,  in  ever  bolder  outline, 
but  clothed  in  a  uniform  green  colour,  varied  occasionally  by  the  dark 
hues  of  the  fir  thickets.  Single  houses  built  of  wood,  but  with  the 
utmost  care  and  neatness,  lay  scattered  about  upon  the  hills,  and  could 
be  readied  by  pretty  \vinding  paths ;  they  had  an  air  of  tranquil  com- 
fort as  they  lay  there  in  that  still  evening,  with  the  beams  of  the 
setting  sun  yet  lingering  upon  them,  that  corresponded  well  with  my 
anticipations,  and  my  satis&ction  was  increased  when,  on  my  arrival  in 
the  evening  twilight  at  Herisau,  the  largest  and  handsomest  village  in 
the  Canton,  I  learned,  that,  in  a  few  days,  would  take  place  the 
general  assemblv  of  one  of  these  little  states,  with  which,  as  you  are 
aware,  resides  the  sovereign  power  of  the  country. 

The  CanUm  of  Appenzell,  though  regarded  as  one  in  the  confederacy, 
does,  in  fact,  consist  of  two  separate  and  independent  republics,  called 
the  Outer  and  Inner  Rhodes ;  this  word  rhode  being,  it  is  said,  a  cor- 
ruption of  the  old  German  rotle,  meaning  troop  or  tribe.  The  man- 
ner in  which  this  topographical  and  political  separation  was  effected 
is,  I  believe,  uniaue  m  history,  and  tnerefore  deserves  mention.  In 
the  year  1522,  Walter  Glarer,  a  parish  priest  of  Appenzell,  had  begun 
to  preach  openly  the  doctrines  of  Zuinglius,  the  Swiss  reformer,  and 
had  found  many  zealous  supporters;  from  others,  however,  he  met 
with  a  no  less  decided  opposition,  and  soon,  in  every  little  village  in 
this  hitherto  peaceful  land,  were  kindled  the  flames  of  the  great 
spiritual  conflagration  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Instead,  however,  of 
cutting  each  other's  throats  in  the  name  of  the  Gkni  of  love  and  mercy, 
as  other  more  civilised  nations  did,  these  rude  shepherds  bethought 
them  of  another  expedient.  As  soon  as  it  became  evident  that  their 
diflPerences  of  opinion  could  not  be  reconciled,  and  that  nothing  re- 
mained now  but  civil  war,  they  said,  "  let  us  divide  the  land,"  and  the 
proposal  was  at  once  received.  The  Catholic  communes  or  parishes, 
chose  the  Cantons  of  Lucerne,  Schwytz,  and  Uuterwaldeu,  for  arbitra- 


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28  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE 

ton;  the  Reformers,  Zurich,  Olarus,  and  SehaflThaiiseii.  Defnities 
from  these  six  cantons  were  sent  to  Appensell,  and  within  a  month 
after,  the  Catholics  had  taken  peaceable  possession  of  the  interior  dis- 
tricts called  Inner  Rhodes,  their  reforming  brethren  of  those  which 
lay  nearer  to  the  frontier,  and  each  little  republic  had  held  its  general 
assembly,  in  which  the  people  not  only  gave  their  consent  to  the 
arrangement,  but  had  even  the  forethought  to  introduce  a  clause, 
stating  that  the  agreement  should  not  necessarily  be  binding  for  ever 
on  their  posterity,  but  should  continue  only  as  long  as  it  should  be 
desired  by  both  parties. 

The  calm  rationality  and  wisdom  of  this  proceeding,  at  a  time 
when  men's  minds  all  over  Europe  were  a  prey  to  the  transports  of 
fanaticism,  gives  these  little  states,  in  my  opinion,  a  claim  to  attention 
and  respect  not  to  be  measured  by  their  geogranhical  extent.  It  may 
afford  also  a  fEu:t  in  reply  to  the  often  repeated  assertion  that  a  pure 
democracy  is  uniformly  swayed  by  passion  rather  than  by  reason.  It  was 
in  that  same  century  when  the  shepherds  of  Switzerland  gave  this 
example  of  reason  and  moderation  that  the  English  nation  had  been 
blown  repeatedly  backwards  and  forwards  between  Catholicism  and 
Protestantism,  by  the  gusts  of  passion  in  the  mind  of  a  brutal  despot. 

Rejoicing  at  the  good  fortune  which  had  led  me  to  Appenzell  at  the 
period  of  the  general  assembly  of  the  people,  the  Lanasgemeine  as  it 
is  called,  I  left  Herisau  on  a  fine  spring  morning  to  take  my  way  to 
the  appointed  place  of  meeting,  the  little  town  of  Appenzell,  in  Inner 
Rhodes.  Light  clouds  covered  the  sky,  but  a  soft  warm  air  was  blow- 
ing, under  whose  influence  all  nature  seemed  bursting  into  bud  and 
blossom.  Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  hill  and  valley,  and  even  moun* 
tain,  were  covered  with  a  robe  of  liveliest  green,  and,  from  the  peculiar 
conformation  of  the  country,  every  step  presented  the  landscape  in  a 
new  point  of  view.  The  hills  sometimes  flowing  into  each  other, 
sometimes  suddenly  parting,  created  an  incessant  change  of  outline, 
mass,  and  surfeu^,  which  kept  the  attention^constantly  occupied.  To 
the  south  rose  naked  rocks  of  a  greyish  black  colour,  contrasting 
forcibly  with  the  snowy  horns  of  the  Santis.  To  the  east,  through 
breaks  in  the  mountains,  occasional  enchanting  peeps  could  be  obtained, 
across  the  bright  mirror  of  the  Lake  of  Constance  to  the  distant  fertile 
fields  of  Suabia,  floating  in  an  atmosphere  of  tender  blue,  and  on  all  sides 
the  view  was  framed  in  by  the  sharp  bold  outline  of  mountains  of 
everv  variety  of  shape. 

The  road  along  which  I  was  journeying  could  onlv  be  traversed  by 
passengers  on  foot  or  on  horseback,  but  showed  on  either  side  manifold 
traces  of  the  cleanliness,  order,  industry,  and  prosperity  of  the  people. 
From  time  to  time,  when  I  was  stopping  to  admire  a  pretty  wooden 
house,  or  a  bright  crystal  spring  that  came  dancing  across  a  green 
slope,  groups  of  men  would  pass  with  hasty  steps,  some  of  whom  wore 
a  most  singular  costume,  the  colour  of  the  right  half  of  every  garment 
being  white,  and  of  the  left  black.  The  composed  demeanour  of  these 
men  seemed,  however,  to  indicate  that  this  strange  attire  was  no 
masquerade  habit,  but  had  some  peculiar  significance,  and  on  making 
enquiry,  I  learned  that  they  were  official  personages  belonging  to 
Outer  Rhodes,  who  were  going  to  Appenzell  to  be  present  at  the  Inner 
Rhodes  parliament.  These  are  the  state  colours,  the  Appenzell  arms 
being  a  black  bear  in  a  white  field. 

AU  at  once  the  road,  or  rather  path,  made  a  steep  descent  into  a 


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PASTORAL  CANTONS   OP   SWITZERLAND.  29 

reTine,  at  the  bottom  of  which  flowed  the  dear  rapid  stream  of  the 
Urnasdi,  which  rises  in  the  moantains  on  the  Toggenbnrg,  and  msh- 
ing  along  between  very  high  banks,  poors  itself  into  the  Sitter.  Like 
most  DHiuntain  streams,  it  sometimes  swells  to  a  torrent,  and  is  oond- 
anall  J  wearing  itself  a  deeper  and  deeper  bed,  which  in  this  part  was 
oFerhung,  when  I  saw  it,  with  lHt>ken  masses  of  sand-stone,  fringed  with 
dark  pinea  ;  and  I  conld  not  help  lingering  for  some  time  mi  the  bridge 
thrown  across  the  narrow  valleys  to  game  npon  its  pctnresqne  beanty. 

On  reaching  the  rieht  bank,  I  came  in  sight  of  the  Tillage  of 
Hundwyl,  and,  from  Vie  small  number  of  whose  houses,  one  conld 
little  imi^ine  to  be  the  largest  parish  of  Cater  Rhodes ;  bat  throogh- 
oat  the  Swiss  cantons,  with  yery  few  exceptions,  the  Tillages  are  all 
smally  ham  its  being  the  costom  for  families  of  this  pastml  people  to 
liTe  oo  their  own  property ;  and  to  have  their  house  in  the  miost  of 
their  land,  so  that  the  inhabitants  of  a  single  parish  are  sometimes 
found  scattered  all  over  a  circle  of  from  ten  to  twenty  miles. 

After  passing  Hundwyl,  the  way  led  along  the  side  of  mountains, 
oovored  with  forests,  thickets,  and  meadows,  and  very  soon,  without 
being  acauainted  with  the  precise  limit  between  Outer  and  Inner 
Rhodes,  it  was  easy  for  me  to  perceive  that  I  had  passed  it.  The 
country,  the  people,  and  their  occupations  remained  the  same,  yet  it 
waa  impossible  to  overlook  the  difference  between  Protestant  and 
Catholic  AnpenzelL  The  fields  of  the  latter  were  not  so  neat,  the 
cnipa  were  less  abundant,  the  meadows  no  longer  showed  that  fresh  deli« 
cioos  green  which  enchanted  me  in  the  Outer  Rhodes;  the  houses 
were  smaller,  poorer,  and  I  missed  everywhere  those  evidences  of  in- 
dustry, order,  and  prosperity  so  beautifully  conspicuous  in  the  little 
twin  republic,  and  I  should  sometimes  almost  have  felt  the  way  tedi- 
ous but  fmr  the  views  which  were  continually  opening  to  the  east, 
where  the  mountains  were  sprinkled  over  with  an  incredible  number 
of  habitations,  giving  to  the  landscape  a  quite  peculiar  character. 

As  I  came  nearer  to  the  capital  of  Inner  Rhodes,  I  met  a  great 
number  of  the  people  going  to  the  general  assembly,  and  on  all  sides 
I  could  distinguish  them  coming  down  the  slopes  of  the  mountains 
towards  the  same  pmnt ;  here  a  man  alone, — there,  a  father  with  his 
sons;  from  another  point  a  whole  troop  of  old  and  young,  all  hastening 
to  AppenselL  Every  one  carried  a  aword,  for,  curiously  enough,  it  is 
the  law  that  the  men  shall  come  armed.  Some  carried  the  weapon  in 
the  right  hand,  grasping  it  by  the  middle  like  a  stick,  and  not  one 
made  a  single  step  to  move  out  of  the  way  of  my  horse,  so  that  I  had 
often  to  stop  and  wait  till  I  could  find  room  enough  to  ride  by.  I 
noticed  this  as  a  little  trait,  marking  the  difference  of  character  be- 
tween these  mountaineers,  and  any  country  people  I  had  ever  seen, 
who  were  always  ready  to  take  off  their  hats  and  stand  respectfully 
aside  to  make  room  for  a  carriage  or  a  gentleman  on  horseback.  In 
the  entire  deportment  and  bearing  of  these  Appenzellers,  in  their  firm 
step  and  free  erect  carriage,  there  was  an  expression  of  manly  self-reli- 
ance.— The  road,  as  I  approached  the  scene  of  action,  was  of  course 
more  and  more  thronged,  and  as  I  gazed  with  interest  at  the  groups 
of  athletic  fijB;ure8  which  surrounded  me,  I  seemed  to  see  revived 
their  valiant  forefsthers,  when  they  rose  up  and  burst  the  chains  that 
had  been  laid  on  them,  and  drove  the  oppressor  from  their  land. 

The  open  village  of  Appenzell  was  swarming  with  people,  and 
everywhere  was  a  movement,  a  thronging  busy  life,  a  hum  like  that 


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30  PASTORAL   CANTONS   OF   SWITZERLAND. 

of  a  great  fair ;  and  one  of  the  busiest  parts  of  the  whole  scene  ' 
the  street  opposite  to  the  inn  where  I  was  to  stop. 

Old  and  youngs  men  and  women,  boys  and  siris,  were  all  evidently 
in  their  Sunday  clothes ;  but  the  costume  of  the  men  was  so  peculiar, 
as  to  deserve  a  more  exact  description.  They  wore  a  short  jacket  and 
waistcoat,  and  trowsers  reaching  to  the  ankle^  but  so  short  aboye> 
that  a  larffe  portion  of  their  linen  hung  out,  and  indeed  had  it  not 
been  for  tbeir  broad  braces,  there  would  have  been  imminent  danger 
of  their  appearing  as  true  ^ans  culottes.  Some  people,  I  am  told, 
consider  this  practice  of  allowing  the  shirt  to  hang  out  as  a  mere 
piece  of  dandyism,  but  I  have  seen  it  in  men  so  old  and  steady, 
that  this  can  hardly  be  the  case. — When  I  entered  the  public  room 
of  the  inn,  and  saw,  sitting  with  their  backs  to  me,  a  whole  row 
of  figures,  apparently  in  so  strange  a  dishabille,  I  could  hardly 
preserve  my  gravity.  The  room  was  full  of  women  and  girls,  but 
of  course  no  one  but  myself  appeared  to  regard  it  as  either  peculiar 
or  comic ;  nay,  on  the  contrary,  to  my  surprise  and  mortification,  I 
found  that  the  indecorum,  or  at  all  events  the  absurdity,  was  thought 
to  be  on  my  side.  I  had  often  noticed  as  I  rode  along  that  a  head  had 
been  popped  out  of  a  window  to  look  at  me,  and  that  immediately 
there  had  followed  a  burst  of  laughter.  Here,  as  I  sat  in  the  apart- 
ment of  the  inn,  I  perceived  several  of  the  women  and  girls  glancing 
at  me  and  tittering,  so  that  at  last  I  was  piqued  to  enquire  the  cause 
of  their  mirth,  to  which  one  of  the  damsels  replied  with  great  naivete, 
that  it  was  '^because  I  looked  so  funny." 

Fashion  in  Appenzell,  it  seems,  commanded,  that,  instead  of  wearing 
one's  indispensables  tightly-buttoned  above  the  hips,  one  should  pre- 
sent one's  self  in  a  state  that  will  really  not  bear  to  be  too  faithfully 
described. 

This  costume  is  perhaps  the  more  striking  from  the  bright  showy 
colour  displayed  in  its  various  parts.  The  waistcoat  is  generally 
scarlet,  ana  decorated  with  many  white  metal  buttons ;  the  jacket  of 
some  other  colour,  both  contrasting  strongly  with  the  snow-white  shirt 
and  yellow  trousers.  Many  of  the  gentlemen  wore  no  jacket*  and  had 
their  shirt  sleeves  rolled  up  above  their  elbows,  displaying  to  much 
advantage  their  fine  development  of  muscle.  Some  of  Uieir  stalwart 
arms  hung  down,  looking  like  sledge  hammers,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  those  who  were  possessed  of  such  advantages,  had  the  same  self- 
complacent  consciousness  of  them,  as  our  young  men  sometimes  have 
of  cravats  and  mustachios;  and  their  manner  of  presenting  themselves  to 
the  ladies,  showed  the  same  easy  confidence  of  pleasing,  that  I  have  seen 
in  eilded  saloons,  on  the  basis  of  stars  and  orders. 

The  fine  snow-white  shirt  was  evidently  an  article  in  which  they 
took  great  pride;  it  was  only  worn,  1  was  told,  on  high  days  and 
holidays,  the  ordinary  one  being  made  of  checked  linen ;  and  the  fine 
yellow  tint  of  the  trousers  is  often  enhanced  by  being  rubbed  over 
with  the  yolks  of  eggs.  Stockings  are  seldom  worn  in  summer,  and 
even  shoes  are  by  no  means  ''  de  rtgueur," 

The  women  wore  red  petticoats  and  little  closely  fitting  bodices  of 
dark  blue  or  red,  and  puffed  out  sleeves  tied  with  ribbon  bows.  The 
majority  of  the  people  were  fair,  but  there  were  some,  whose  hair  and 
complexion,  as  well  as  their  dark  sparkling  eyes  spoke  of  a  southern 
origin,  and  the  whole  expression  of  face  and  figure  was  of  quickness, 
activity,  and  intelligence. 


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31 


THE    LUCKY    GROCER. 

BY   ABRAHAM    ELDER. 
WITH     AN     ILLUSTRATION     BY     LEECH. 

Every  one  who  knows  anything  of  London  knows  where  Barbi- 
can is — of  course  he  does.  At  the  end  of  Barbican  is  Long  Lane, 
in  which  street  there  is  a  small  grocer's  shop,  with  its  window  well 
garnished  with  bunches  of  candles,  red  herrings,  yellow  soap,  and 
tobacco.  One  evening,  Mr.  Sims,  the  proprietor,  his  wife,  son, 
daughter,  and  their  man  Joe,  were  regaling  themselves  in  their  little 
back  parlour  upon  their  daily  allowance  of  tea,  when,  through  their 
glass  window  they  espied  the  postman  entering  the  shop. 

''  There's  somebody  wanting  immediate  payment  for  something," 
said  Mr.  Sims,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  ^' They  always  come  when 
the  till  is  low.  See  what  it  is,  Joe."  Joe  returned  with  a  letter. 
"  I'll  just  finish  my  cup,  and  take  another  slice  of  bread  and  butter, 
before  I  open  it.     Them  kind  of  letters  take  away  my  appetite." 

'At  length,  with  slow  and  unwilling  hands,  he  took  up  the  letter, 
looked  at  the  direction,  and  then  turned  up  the  seal.  '*  T  and  M, 
Yes,  a  shop  seal, — I  thought  so." 

With  a  long  countenance  he  opened  it  and  began  to  read.  As  his 
eye  glanced  down  the  page,  his  features  brightened,  and  before  he 
came  to  the  bottom  of  the  page,  a  pleasant  smile  revealed  his  inward 
satisfaction. 

*'  Somebody  has  ordered  a  whole  ham,  and  promises  to  pay  ready 
money  ?"  said  his  son  Sam,  offering  a  guess. 

Mr.  Sims  took  no  notice  of  him,  but  sat  thoughtful  for  a  moment, 
and  then  said,  ''  Tain't  the  first  of  April,  is  it  ?  No ;  'taint  dated 
the  first  of  April  either."  He  then  read  the  letter  over  again,  and  a 
broader  grin  adorned  his  countenance.  When  he  had  finished  it, 
he  then  deliberately  took  his  wig  off  his  head,  and  threw  it  up  to 
the  deling,  catching  it  again  as  it  fell. 

'*  It 's  very  easy,"  said  Mrs.  Sims,  who  was  not  of  a  very  excitable 
temperament,  *'  to  throw  your  wig  up  to  the  cieling,  as  it  is  only 
seven  foot  high ;  but  I  really  do  not  see  the  reason  for  it." 

^'  Read  that,"  said  Mr.  Sims,  throwing  her  the  letter. 

Mrs.  Sims  read  the  letter,  smiled,  and  only  said  *'  My  high !"  in  a 
tone  of  astonishment. 

''  I  know  what  it  is,"  said  her  daughter  Sally :  **  cousin  Bess  has 
got  a  baby." 

''  Fiddlestick  !"  said  Mrs.  Sims. 

'*  Do  you  think  it  can  possibly  be  true  V  said  Mr.  Sims. 

''  Read  the  letter,  ma,"  said  young  Sam. 

''  Read  the  letter,  ma,"  said  Sally. 

<'  Please  to  read  the  letter,  ma'am/'  said  Joe. 

''  Messrs.  Tompkins  and  Muggins  beg  to  inform  Mr.  Samuel  Sims 
that  their  correspondent  in  Calcutta  has  remitted  to  them  the  sum  of 
eighty  thousand  pounds,  on  account  of  Mr.  Samuel  Sims,  grocer. 
No.  153,  Long  Lane,  London,  beinff  the  sum  to  which  he  is  entitled 
by  the  will  of  Mr.  Obedlah  Sims,  lately  deceased.  Messrs.  T.  and 
M.  would  be  obliged  to  Mr.  Sims  by  his  calling  at  their  office  at  his 
earliest  convenience." 


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32  THE   LUCKY   GROCER. 

«'  Eighty  thousand  pounds  of  what  ?''  asked  Sally. 

"  t31ow,  my  dear,  I  dare  say,"  said  Sam. 

''  Money  [money  !  money  V*  cried  Mr.  Sims,  rubbing  his  hands  with 
glee,  and  then  snapping  his  fingers  till  he  made  them  crack  a^ain. 

*'  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Sims,  putting  her  feet 
upon  the  fender,  and  sulkily  poking  the  fire.  "  I  wonder  they  did 
not  send  you  a  draft  for  the  amount  upon  the  pump  at  Aldgate." 

*'  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Sims,  settling  his  wig  straight 
upon  his  head,  "  perhaps  I  have  been  making  a  fool  of  myself ;  but 
how  should  any  one  about  here  know  that  I  had  a  cousin  called 
Obediah  ?  If  tve  had  quite  forgotten  him,  I  suppose  other  people 
have  too." 

'*  Well,  if  you  think  you  have  got  a  prize,"  said  Mrs.  Sims,  incre- 
dulously, *'  you  had  better  go  and  look  after  it" 

'*  It 's  worth  looking  after,"  said  Mr.  Sims ;  **  and,  though  I  may 
be  laughed  at,  I  won't  lose  it  for  want  of  asking  for  it." 

Mr.  Sims  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  to  the  door  of  the  shop,  then 
stopped  as  if  in  doubt  He  then  returned,  hung  up  his  hat,  and  sat 
down  again. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  1  could  not  stand  it  There  will  be  four-and- 
twenty  clerks  at  their  desks  all  of  a  row ;  and  when  I  ask  for  my 
money,  they  will  all  begin  a-laughing,  and  say, '  Here 's  Sammy  Sims, 
who  sells  red  herrings,  come  to  ask  for  eighty  thousand  pounds  !'  " 

**  I  wish  I  was  in  your  shoes,"  said  Joe ;  *'  nobody  should  laugh 
at  me.  I  would  first  show  them  the  seaL — ^Is  that  the  seal  of 
the  firm,  eh  ?  If  they  said  '  yes,'  I  would  show  them  the  direction. 
*  Is  that  the  writing  of  any  of  the  firm,  eh  ?'  If  they  said  '  yes,'  I 
would  show  them  the  signature.  '  Is  that  signature  correct,  eh  ?' 
If  they  said  '  yes'  again,  I  would  say,  *  Then  I  will  trouble  you  for 
the  small  amount  " 

Mr.  Sims  clapped  Joe  on  the  back,  and  said,  '*  Joe,  you  are  a 
trump !     Come  along  with  me." 

They  sallied  forth  together.  The  seal  was  correct,  the  hand-writ- 
ing correct,  the  signature  all  right 

*'  1  will  give  you  a  draft  for  the  amount  directly,"  said  one  of  die 
partners.  *'  It  will,  however,  be  necessary  that  some  one  should  iden- 
tify you.    It 's  rather  a  considerable  sum." 

**  A  considerable  sum ! "  said  Joe.    "  1  should  rather  say  it  was." 

"  I  can  identify  him,"  said  one  of  the  clerks :  "  that's  Jemmy 
Sims.  I  have  often  been  in  his  shop,  when  I  was  at  schooL  It 
was  a  noted  house  for  elicampane." 

The  partner  took  a  small  slip  of  paper,  and  wrote  something  on  it, 
and  gave  it  to  Sims,  and  then  turned  to  his  other  business,  again 
adding  up  figures  in  a  huge  book. 

Mr.  Sims  stood  all  astonishment  for  some  time,  with  his  paper  in 
his  hand ;  for  he  was  not  aware  of  the  facility  with  which  large 
sums  change  owners  in  the  city.    At  length  he  said  to  Joe  in  a 
whimper,  "  It's  a  rum  go." 
**  Werry  rum,"  said  Joe. 

Presently  one  of  the  clerks,  seeing  their  distress,  explained  to 
them  that  the  paper  was  a  draft  upon  their  bankers,  who,  upon  the 
presentation  of  the  order,  would  hand  them  over  the  money. 

**  Hand  us  over  the  money  I"  repeated  Mr.  Sims,  with  a  smile ;  at 
the  same  time  he  gave  Joe  a  private  dig  in  the  ribs  with  his  thumb 
nail. 


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THE  LUCKY   GBOCER.  33 

They  went  to  the  bankers,  anch  presented  the  check.  The  banker 
looked  at  the  check,  and  said,  '*  How  would  you  like  to  have  it?" 
If  it  had  been  a  draf^  for  thirty  shillings,  he  could  not  have  treated 
it  with  i^eater  indiflerence. 

Mr.  Sims  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  for  he  almost  thought  that 
he  was  in  a  dream,  and  then  said,  *'  Gold, — in  gold ;  1  would  like  to 
take  it  in  gold !" 

**  Have  the  goodness  to  step  this  way,"  said  the  banker. 
They  followed  him  up  stairs  to  a  little  dingy-looking  room,  with 
an  old  table  in  it  and  two  chairs ;  and  producing  a  large  key,  he 
opened  an  iron  door  in  the  wall  which  opened  into  a  so^l  vaulted 
room  with  chests  upon  the  floor,  and  some  bundles  of  papers  and 
odd-looking  tin  boxes  upon  the  shelves  round  the  waH ;  and  taking 
out  another  key,  he  opened  an  iron  chest  that  stood  in  the  corner. 

"  iKNrd  have  mercy  on  us  V*  said  Joe,  involuntarily,  ''  it 's  full  of 
sovereigns." 

*•  That 's  only  twenty  thousand,"  said  the  banker,  smiling.  **  It 
occupies  too  much  time  to  count  them :  we  will  weigh  them  out  to 
you,"  pointing  to  a  copper  shovel  and  a  pair  of  scales. 

"  Joe  took  up  one  handle  of  the  box,  and  lifted  it,  to  try  the 
weight,  shook  his  head,  and  looked  at  Sims.  Sims  tried  a  handle, 
shook  his  head,  and  looked  at  Joe. 

"  A  rum  go»'  said  Joe,  '' to  be  carrying  this  home  through  the 
streets." 

'<  Anxious  furniture  for  our  back-parlour,  Joe." 
"  And,  besides,"  said  Joe,   <'  you  would  be  awaking  some  fine 
morning  with  your  throat  cut.    There  are  fellows  in  London  that 
can  smell  out  gold  through  a  brick  wall." 
Sims  scratched  his  hei^,  and  looked  serious. 
**  We  shall  be  happy  to  take  diarge  of  it  for  you,"  said  the  banker, 
"  and  you  can  draw  for  any  amount  you  like  whenever  it  suits  you." 
**  An  !  that  would  be  a  prime  way  of  doing  it,"  said  Joe,  who  ap- 
peared to  be  struck  by  the  novelty  of  the  contrivance^ 

Sims  assented,  but  observed  that  he  would  like  to  take  a  small 
sample  home  to  show  Missis. 

•'What  think  you  of  fifty  pounds  ?"  said  Joe;  "to  Uke  it  home 

all  in  one  lump— Goshins !  how  it  would  make  them  open  their  eyes." 

The  banker  drew  out  a  draft  for  Sims  to  sign,  and  then  counted 

out  the  money,  which  Sims  deposited  in  the  pocket  of  his  small 

clothes,  carefully  buttoning  it  up. 

*'  Now,  Joe,"  said  Sims,  in  a  whisper,  as  they  emerged  into  the 
street,  "  keep  carefully  on  my  money  side."  And  thus  they  threaded 
their  way  homewards,  keeping  carefully  in  the  centre  of  the  road- 
way, and  avoiding  the  contact  of  every  foot  passenger  as  if  he  had 
the  plague. 

"  I  never  was  afraid  of  having  my  pocket  picked  before  this  day," 
said  old  Sims. 

Street  after  street  they  passed,  Sims  looking  anxious  and  serious. 
At  length  he  broke  silence,  thus  moralizing : 

*'  Joe,"  said  he,  <*  there  is  a  great  deal  of  anxiety  attending  the 
possession  of  money." 

When  they  arrived  safely  in  the  back  parlour,  his  affectionate 
family  received  them  with  a  shout  of  laughter.  Sims  laughed  too, 
for  his  heart  was  full  of  joy. 

VOL.  XXIII.  n 


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84  THE   LUCKY   GROCER. 

*'WeUr  said  Mrs.  Sims. 

"  WeU !"  said  old  Sims. 

**  And  did  you  really  go  to  the  la^^yers  ?*' 

'*  I  did,"  said  old  Sims. 

**  And  did  you  show  them  the  seal  ?"  said  his  son  and  heir. 

**  I  did/'  said  old  Sims ;  **  and  they  said  that  it  was  very  like  the 
seal  of  the  firm." 

''  And  what  did  they  say  to  the  signature  ?" 

"  They  said  that  it  was  very  like  uie  signature  of  the  firm." 

**  Well/'  said  Mrs.  Sims,  her  eye  brightening  up,  **  what  happened 
next?" 

**  One  of  the  partners  wrote  something  on  a  bit  of  paper,  and 
showed  me  the  door/' 

''  That 's  just  what  I  expected/'  said  Mrs.  Sims ;  however,  she  did 
not  laugh.  ''And  so  you  just  put  your  tail  between  your  legs,  and 
sneaked  home." 

''No,  I  didn't,"  said  old  Sims:  "  I  just  went  to  the  banker  whose 
name  was  on  the  paper. 

"  Well/'  said  Mrs.  Sims,  again  brightening  up>  "and  what  did  he 
say?" 

"  He  axed  me  how  I  would  have  it,"  said  old  Sims. 

"  What !"  said  Mrs.  Sims,  taking  her  feet  from  off  the  fender,  and 
starting  up,—"  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  there  really  is  any  money  ?" 

"  Don't  I  though  !"  said  old  Sims,  taking  out  his  small  canvas  bag 
of  money,  and  pouring  it  out  upon  the  table. 

"  Them 's  the  boys,"  said  Joe,  as  they  rolled  about  in  different  di- 
rections. 

"  You  're  a  darling  of  a  man !"  said  Mrs.  Sims,  as  she  gave  her 
husband  a  kiss  in  the  overflowing  of  her  heart. 

"  We  '11  not  be  afraid  now  of  uiem  wholesale  fellows  bills,"  said 
old  Sims,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pocket 

"  /  should  think  not,"  said  Joe. 

Here  a  loud  knocking  in  the  shop  interrupted  the  rejoicing  family. 

"  Them 's  customers  waiting  in  the  shop/'  said  Joe. 

"  D the  customers,"  said  young  Sims,  separating  his  coat- 
tails  before  the  fire. 

Old  Sims,  however,  went  to  attend  them.  "  Widow  Brown,  how 
are  you  ?  how  is  the  sick  child  ?  What  is  it  to-day  ? — a  pound  of 
bacon,  eh  ?"  Old  Sims  cut  off  about  a  pound  and  a  half,  and  the 
bacon  scale  came  down  on  the  counter  with  a  whack. 

"  I  can't  afford  to  take  more  than  a  pound,"  said  the  widow. 

"  I  only  call  it  a  pound,"  said  old  Sims ;— "  widow  woman — large 
family,  you  know — all  quite  right,"  as  he  put  a  piece  of  paper  round 
the  bacon.  The  widow  turned  up  her  eyes  as  she  thanked  him. 
There  was  a  blessing  in  her  thanks. 

"  What  do  you  want?" 

"  A  halfpenny  candle,"  said  an  old  woman. 

Sims  gave  her  a  penny  one,  and  put  the  halfpenny  in  the  till. 

The  honest  old  woman  returned  with  the  candle,  asking  whether 
it  was  not  a  mistake. 

"  No  mistake  at  all/'  said  Sims.  "  I  thought  that  you  would  see 
better  with  the  penny  one,  and  I  can  afford  the  difference." 

The  old  woman  raised  her  withered  hand,  and  prayed  that  God 
might  prosper  him. 


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TBE  LUCKY   GROCER*  36 

Old  Sims  returned  to  his  back  shop  with  the  inward  satisfaction  of 
having  performed  a  good  action.  **  Surely/'  said  he/^  there  is  a  bless- 
ing attending  riches.     What  a  life  of  happiness  I  have  before  me !" 

Now,  Sims's  proceedings  was  much  at  variance  with  the  custo- 
mary mode  of  domg  business  in  Long  Lane ;  and  the  fame  of  it  got 
noised  abroad  in  the  course  of  the  evening.  When  the  shutters 
were  taken  down  on  the  following  morning,  there  was  a  manifest 
increase  in  the  number  of  customers. 

"  Here 's  money  for  a  pound  of  bacon,"  said  one  woman ;  "  I  've 
got  ten  children." 

"  I  want  two  halfpenny  candles/'  said  another ;  *'  my  mother's 
older  than  t'other  one." 

Another  wanted  soap,  and  another  herrings.  Old  Sims,  how- 
ever, not  approving  of  this  mode  of  taking  his  charity  by  storm,  just 
served  them  in  the  old  fashioned  way.  In  return  for  which  he  met 
with  abuse.  *^  Why  ain't  I  to  get  as  big  a  bit  of  bacon  as  widow 
Brown?" 

**  Why  ain't  I  to  get  as  good  a  candle,  (for  my  money  is  as  good 
as  other  folks)  I  should  like  to  know  ?" 

Old  Sims  leaving  his  customers  to  the  care  of  Joe,  retired  into 
his  back  shop,  moralizing  as  he  went.  **  Surely/'  he  said,  '^  riches 
Imng  with  them  trouble  as  well  as  blessings." 

**  Why  should  not  we  retire  from  business  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Sims, 
as  he  entered. 

"  But  where  shall  we  retire  to  ?  "  demanded  old  Sims,  whose  know- 
ledge of  geography  was  confined  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Long  Lane. 

'<  However/'  said  young  Sims,  pulling  up  his  shirt  collar,  **  catch 
me  cutting  soap  again." 

"How  nice  it  would  be,"  said  Miss  Sims,  "to  keep  a  four- 
wheeled  chay,  dress  fine,  and  give  baUs  and  parties,  like  old  Clark 
the  butcher." 

"  A  note,  ma'am,"  said  Joe, 

Mrs.  Sims  opened  it.  "  Mrs.  Figgins  hopes  to  see  Mr.  and  Mrs., 
Master  and  Miss  Sims  to  tea  to-morrow." 

"  Ho !  ho ! "  said  Mrs.  Sims,  bridling  up,  "  the  wholesales  would 
not  visit  her  because  she  kept  a  retail  shop,  and  she  would  not  visit 
us  because  we  were  small  retail.  I  won't  have  none  of  her  nasty 
tea  now  that  we  are  rich." 

"  There 's  a  gentleman  come  into  the  shop,"  said  young  Sims. 

*'  I  see,"  said  Sims,  "  it 's  just  little  six-and-eightpenny  Graggs,  let 
him  wait  a  bit,  Joe,  we  ain't  afraid  of  lawyers  now." 

The  little  man,  however,  finding  no  one  in  the  shop,  crept  up  to 
the  glass-door  and  opening  it  a  little,  popped  in  his  head,  "  Ha  1  how 
do  you  do,  Mr.  Sims  ?  I  saw  such  a  beautiful  bit  of  bacon  in  the 
shop,  that  I  could  not  help  calling  in  to  buy  a  pound  of  it  A 
slice  of  such  bacon  as  that  cut  thin  and  broiled  for  breakfast,  is  a 
great  delicacy,  Mr.  Sims.  Pray  am  I  to  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Sims, 
uponyour  having  a  large  accession  of  property  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  old  Sims,  "  we  are  pretty  snug  now." 

'*  It  was  a  very  large  sum  ?  "  said  the  lawyer,  inquiringly. 

'*  I  should  rayther  think  it  was,"  said  the  grocer. 

"  I  presume  you  have  taken  die  necessary  steps  to  have  it  safely 
invested?" 

"  We  left  it  in  GoutU's  bank." 

B  2 


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86  THE  LUCKY  GROCER. 

''  Dear !  dear  !  dear!"  said  the  lawyer^  ''there  really  is  a  risk  in 
leaving  such  a  sam  as  that  at  a  banker's,  the  best  of  them  are  liable 
to  break  at  times,  and  what  a  loss  such  a  sum  as  that  would  be. 

'*  We  tried  to  take  it  out  in  gold/'  said  Joe,  **  but  we  found  that 
we  could  not  carry  it." 

"Could  not  carry  it!  ha!  ha!  ha!  could  not  carry  it"  Very 
pretty  innocents  these,  thought  he  to  himself. 

"  You  don't  think  Coutts's  bank  unsafe,  I  hope/'  said  old  Sims. 

"  Its  credit  is  good  at  present,  certainly,  but  I  must  confess  that  I 
should  not  like  to  leave  any  large  sum  of  money  of  my  own  there." 

''I  think  I  shall  put  it  in  the  funds,"  said  old  Sims. 

«  Oh  ! — the  funds — ha  !  to  be  sure  the  funds  are  well  enough 
now,  if  there  comes  no  war  or  anything  of  that  sort,  it  may  last  our 
time.  My  dear  sir/'  said  the  lawyer,  taking  old  Sims  by  the  but- 
ton^  **  as  long  as  a  country  thinks  it  likely  that  they  may  want  to 
borrow  more,  they  pay  Uie  interest  as  regularly  as  quarter-day 
comes ;  but  whenever  it  suits  their  convenience,  they  repudiate  as 
the  Yankeys  do.  When  you  go  to  ask  for  your  interest,  they  say 
'  much  obliged  to  you  for  lending  us  the  money,  but  we  don't  want 
any  more ;  we're  not  going  to  pay  any  money,  only  to  keep  up  our 
credit— credit  is  a  very  pretty  thing  in  its  way,  but  it  is  not  worth 
what  we're  paying  for  it.'  A  friend  of  mine,  Smith,  of  the  firm  of 
Smith,  Jones,  and  Co.,  who  held  some  Pennsylvania  bonds,  deter- 
mined to  come  to  a  clear  understanding  with  the  head  of  the  firm, 
so  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Governor  of  Pennsylvania  himself,  and  ex- 
plained to  him  how  the  money  was  fairly  lent,  and  payment  of 
capital  and  interest  guaranteed.  Now  there  was  plenty  of  means  of 
paying  the  money,  and  yet  the  interest  remained  unpayed,  and  con^ 
eluded  by  civilly  requesting  some  explanation  upon  the  subject. 
Well,  and  what  answer  do  you  suppose  he  got  ?  " 

'^  I  should  not  wonder  if  he  got  rather  a  short  answer,"  said  old  Sims. 

"  A  short  answer ;  why  it  was  rather  a  short  answer,  ha !  ha !  It 
was  one  sentence." 

"  Do  you  happen  to  remember  what  that  sentence  was?" 

"Oh,  yes,  the  letter  contained  just  these  words,  *  Don't  yc/U  wish 
you  may  get  it, — Yours  Gov.  Pen,'" 

"  How  very  ungenteel  I"  said  Mrs.  Sims. 

"  It 's  a  very  vulgar  unbusiness  like  way  of  writing,"  said  Sims. 
"  But  you  don't  suppose  that  if  I  was  to  put  my  money  in  the  Eng- 
lish funds,  I  should  ever  get  a  letter  like  that  from  the  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer  ?  " 

"Mr.  Sims,"  said  the  lawyer,  taking  him  by  the  button  again^ 
"  you  have  been  in  business  for  some  years,  I  dare  say  that  you  have 
met  with  customers  who  run  up  accounts  at  your  shop,  and  instead 
of  paying  for  what  they  have  had  before,  order  more  goods,  and 
when  you  wont  serve  them  any  longer,  they  just  cut  their  stick." 

Old  Sims  sighed  and  shook  his  head,  "  I  know  that  too  well,  sir." 

"Now  look  here,  Mr.  Sims,  England  is  just  one  of  these;  she 
keeps  borrowing  and  borrowing  and  never  thinks  at  all  about  pay- 
ing. It  was  only  a  year  or  two  ago  when  they  borrowed  twenty 
millions  to  give  to  West  India  proprietors ;  I  should  like  to  know 
how  much  of  that  they  have  paid  or  thought  about  paying.  I  would 
venture  to  bet  a  new  hat  that  if  this  year  or  next  year  they  should 
happen  to  want  six  or  eight  millions  more  for  any  odd  job,  thev 
would  just  put  it  down  to  the  account,  and  never  trouble  their  heads 


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THE   LUCKY    GROCER.  37 

about  any  payment    I  think,  Mr.  Sims  that  no  good  can  come  of 
that  kind  of  dealing." 

Mr  Sims  lifted  up  the  corner  of  his  wig  and  scratched  his  head. 
*•  Indeed,  I  can't  tell  where  to  put  my  money." 

"  I  can  tell  you/'  said  the  lawyer. 

*' Where?" 
^  '*  Put  it  in  a  good  railway.  Look  here,  Mr.  Sims,"  holding  him 
tight  by  the  button,  <<  people  subscribe  to  make  a  railway — hills 
cut — valleys  611ed,  tunnels  made,  and  rails  laid  down ;  there  it  is 
(pointing  down  to  the  drugget  on  the  floor,)  nobody  can  steal  it,  run 
away  with  it,  break  it,  or  injure  it.  There  it  is.  But  when  a  nation 
has  borrowed  your  money  and  s]>ent  it,  where  is  it?  I  say,  Mr. 
Sims,  where  is  it  ?  The  chief  difference  between  a  nation  and  an 
individual,  is,  that  a  nation  has  got  no  conscience." 

^'  I  have  a  great  mind  to  try  a  railroad,"  said  old  Sims,  jingling  his 
sovereigns  in  his'pocket. 

'*  I  think  it,  however,  right  to  state,"  said  the  lawyer,  '^  that  there 
is  one  objection  to  railways,  which  is,  that  the  government  will  not 
allow  the  proprietors  to  get  more  than  ten  per  cent  for  their  money." 

Nevertheless,  old  Sims  became  a  railway  proprietor,  and  invested 
his  money  in  the  grand  Middlesex  direct  railway  company,  to  which 
his  friend  Craggs  was  solicitor.  He  also  purchased  JPrimrose  Hall, 
about  forty  miles  from  London,  and  thus  became  a  landed  pro- 
prietor.    A  carriage  was  bought  upon  Graggs's  recommendation. 

Joey  was  offered  the  shop,  with  the  stock  in  it  to  set  up  with,  but 
he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  He  had  been  accustomed  to 
do  what  he  was  bid,  but  not  to  think  for  himself.  The  thing  that 
he  woold  Uke,  would  be  to  ride  behind  Mr.  Sims's  carriage  as  foot« 
man,  in  red  breeches.  So  the  shop  was  let  for  a  year,  and  Joey 
splendidly  arrayed  as  flunkey. 

Craggs  was  consulted  about  what  arms  or  crest  ought  to  be  put 
upon  the  carriage.  Mrs.  Sims  observed,  that  the  thins  she  fancied 
was  a  half  lion  stuck  upright,  a-clawlng  away.  She  nad  seen  one 
upon  a  very  genteel  carriage,  and  she  admired  it  at  the  time. 
Craggs  replied,  that  the  proper  arms  and  crest  for  the  name  of 
Sims  could  be  obtained,  rightly  emblazoned,  at  the  Heralds'  Col- 
lege, and  for  ten  pound  he  could  get  the  whole  properly  done  for 
them.  So  Sims  paid  his  ten  pounds,  and  his  crest,  a  dexter  hand 
canying  a  herring  gules,  was  painted  upon  his  carriage  panel. 

While  all  this  was  going  on,  althougk  Sims  had  disposed  of  his 
business  and  let  his  shop  for  a  year,  he  still  quietly  occupied  his  back 
parlour,  and  made  his  appearance  in  the  shop  occasionally,  so  that  the 
neighbours  were  hardly  aware  of  any  real  change  having  taken  place. 

Neither  the  carriage,  Joe's  new  livery,  nor  any  of  the  ladies'  grand 
purchases,  were  ever  exhibited  in  Long  Lane,  but  were  forwarded, 
as  procured,  to  Primrose  Hall,  together  with  Sam's  shooting-jacket^ 
top-boots,  and  double-barrelled  gun. 

When  all  things  were  finally  arranged  for  their  migration,  the 
ftmily  went  down  by  the  rail  to  the  station  nearest  to  the  scene  of 
their  new  magnificence,  where  their  carriage  was  waiting  for  them. 
Jot  attending  m  a  light- green  livery,  with  yellow  collar  and  scarlet 
small  clothes. 

Joe  opened  the  door,  trying  to  subdue  his  broad  grin  into  a  re- 
spectful demeanour,  but  it  was  too  much  for  him.  Sam  pinched 
SsUy's  elbow,  who  set  off  into  a  convulsive  Utter.     Sam  went  off  at 


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38  THE  LUCKY   GROCER. 

once  into  a  horse  laugh ;  Mrs.  Sims  caught  the  infecUon  ;  old  Sims 
tried  at  first  to  frown^  for  the  laugh,  he  knew,  would  be  destructive 
to  his  dignity,  but  he  was  obliged  to  give  way,  and  the  whole  party 
at  length  laughed  in  grand  chorus,  very  much  to  the  astonishment 
of  the  railway  porters. 

At  length  they  arrived  at  the  hall,  where  Graggs  awaited  them, 
and  handed  Mrs.  Sims  out  of  the  carriage,  with  as  much  deference 
and  ceremony  as  if  she  had  been  the  Queen  of  England.  The  gar- 
dener, the  groom,  the  housemaid,  the  housekeeper,  the  cook,  and 
the  ladies'  maid,  bowed  and  curtseyed  to  the  lady  of  the  house  as  she 
entered  her  new  mansion.  Mrs.  Sims  pursed  up  her  mouth  and  bit 
her  lip  to  prevent  her  self-satisfied  smile  from  injuring  her  dignity. 
Old  Sims,  however,  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  attempt  any  dig- 
nity at  all,  but,  with  a  broad  grin  adorning  his  rosy  countenance,  he 
•hook  hands  with  his  servants  all  round. 

Neither  did  young  Sam,  as  he  emerced  from  the  carriage,  attempt 
to  subdue  his  emotion,  for,  as  his  KK>t  touched  the  ground,  he 
pitched  his  hat  up  into  the  air,  and  shouted  '^  hurra  !"  and,  as  he 
entered  the  house,  he  turned  round  and  said,  '^  one  of  you  fellows, 
bring  in  my  hat" 

Miss  Sally  emerged,  fanning  herself  with  a  carved  ivory  fan,  and 
saying,  "  Lauk,  how  nice  I " 

The  drawing-room  and  its  furniture  next  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  happy  family ;  for,  as  in  the  purchase,  everything  in  the  house 
was  to  be  taken  in  valuation,  everything  was  new  to  them ;  indeed, 
Gragffs  had  negotiated  the  whole  affair,  and  old  Sims  had  only  slip- 
ped aown  once,  for  a  few  hours,  to  see  his  purchase. 

'<  Look  here,  Sims,"  said  his  lady, ''  what  a  nice  chair  this  is.  It 
feels  as  if  it  went  upon  springs.  It  actually  hobbles  about  under 
me  when  I  move." 

"You  are  quite  right,  madam,"  said  Graggs;  **it  is  a  spring 
cushion." 

"  1  say,  father,  a  capital  sophy  this  to  cock  one's  legs  up  upon," 
said  Sam,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word. 

^'  Oh  my ! "  said  Sally,  '*  here  is  a  piany ;  how  I  should  like  to 
play  just  one  tune  upon  it ;  just, '  I  *d  be  a  butterfly.' " 

Sims  heeded  not  the  furniture,  but  looked  out  of  the  window  upon 
the  land.  He  was  now  a  landed  proprietor.  It  was  his  fields,  hU 
trees,  his  gate,  his  pond,  his  ducks.  He  swelled  out  with  his  own 
importance  as  he  surveyed  his  extensive  possessions. 

The  door  opened  wide,  and  Joey  entered  in  full  costume.  He  made 
a  low  bow,  and  gave  a  scrape  of  his  foot  behind.  "  If  it  please  your 
ladyship,  the  cook  wants  to  have  a  bit  of  talk  with  you  about  dinner." 

"Joey,"  said  Graggs,  "  that  won't  do.'* 

"  Teach  your  granny  to  suck  eggs,"  said  Joey,  "  How  should 
you  know  anything  about  it  ?  " 

"  Joey,"  said  Mrs.  Sims,  "  1  '11  go  into  the  kitchen  and  see  about 
it  myself." 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  IVIrs.  Sims,"  said  Graggs ;  "  the  genteel  thing 
is  to  have  the  cook  up  into  the  parlour,  and  give  her  your  orders." 

"  Odds  boddikin !  Mr.  Graggs,  mayn't  a  woman  go  into  her  own 
kitchen  and  see  what 's  a-doing  there  ?  " 

Graggs  twirled  his  thumbs,  and  cast  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  as 
much  as  to  say,  catch  me  ever  doing  a  good-natured  thing  again. 

"  I  say,  Graggs,"  said  Sam,  "  when  you  have  quite  done  twirling 


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THE  LUCKY  QROCEfi.  % 

your  tfaombs,  perhaps  you  will  come  with  me  to  the  stable^  and 
shew  me  the  saadle-horse  that  you  bought  for  me." 

*^  What  would  you  like  to  have  for  dinner^  Sims  ?  "  said  his  wife, 

'*  A  roast  leg  of  mutton." 

"  What  do  you  say,  Sam  ?  '* 

"  A  boiled  leg  of  mutton,  with  turnips." 

«<  Well,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Sims, "  we  can  afford  to  have  both ;  well  have 
roast  leg  at  top,  and  boiled  at  the  bottom.   What  do  you  say,  Sally  ? ' 

"  Tripe,  mamma." 

*'  You  shall  have  it,  my  dear,  and  any  little  pitty  patties  the  cook 
can  think  of." 

Sam  and  the  attorney  now  went  out  to  examine  the  new  horse. 
Sam  patted  it,  and  admired  it,  and  then  took  his  friend  aside,  and 
said,  ''There  is  (me  thing  bothers  me  very  much,  I  don't  know 
how  to  ride.  Never  had  a  ride  but  once  in  my  life,  that  was  when 
I  was  hoisted  on  a  boy's  back  at  school  to  be  flogged.  Awkward, 
aint  it  .^  now  I  am  grown  a  gentleman." 

''  I  should  strongly  recommend  you,**  said  Craggs, ''  to  take  Tom, 
the  groom,  into  your  confidence,  and  let  him  give  you  lessons." 

While  they  were  thus  discoursing,  the  arrival  of  a  visitor  was  an- 
nounced, and  Sam's  presence  required  in  the  drawing-room.  The 
visitor  was  Mr.  Jones,  the  secretary  of  the  county  hunt,  who  had 
called  to  see  whether  any  subscription  was  to  be  got  out  of  the  new 
comers,  and  to  offer  to  father  and  son  the  privilege  of  becoming  a 
membCT  of  the  aforesaid  hunt,  which  would  entitle  them  to  ride  out 
in  a  scarlet  coat,  with  golden  fox  galloping  down  its  green  collar. 
Old  Sam  considered  the  costume  to  be  too  fanciful  for  a  man  of  his 
time  of  life,  but  young  Sam  was  greatly  delighted  at  the  proposi- 
tion, and  sent  off  Tom,  the  groom,  express  for  the  tailor,  without 
farther  loss  of  time. 

Soon  after  this  the  hunt-ball  took  place.  Sammy  appeared  in  the 
evening  costume  of  the  county  hunt;  Mrs.  Sims  in  a  magnificent 
turban,  with  tremendous  ostrich  feathers,  which  had  the  effect  of 
frightening  away  many  who  might  otherwise  haVe  made  her  ac- 
quaintance ;  Miss  Sally  was  arrayed  in  brilliant,  and  not  very  judi- 
ciously contrasted,  colours ;  while  old  Sims  was  modestly  dressed  in 
a  new  snuff-coloured  coat." 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  that,  mamma  ?  "  asked  Sall^,  "  As  we 
passed  through  the  door,  one  young  lady  said  to  another, '  Did  you 
ever?,'  and  the  other  answered, '  No,  I  never.' " 

**  It 's  some  genteel  wav  of  speaking,  I  suppose,"  said  her  mother; 
*'  we  ought  to  learn  it.    Ask  Craggs  about  it." 

On  the  whole,  the  lucky  family  were  grievously  disappointed  at  not 
receiving  a  more  hearty  welcome  in  this  the  country  of  their  adoption.  ^ 

One  of  the  stewards,  it  is  true,  did  find  a  ver^^  young  gentleman 
to  dance  with  Sally,  and  young  Sammy  danced  with  a  Miss  Gorgon, 
one  of  a  family  of  many  sisters,  who  were  possessed  of  small  per- 
sonal attractions,  youth,  or  worldly  endowments,  who  had  danced 
away  pertinaciously  for  many  a  long  year  in  search  of  a  partner  for 
hfe,  but  danced  in  vain. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Sims,  what  do  you  think  of  this  here  genteel  con- 
sam }  "  asked  old  Sims,  when  they  had  got  into  their  carriage.  ''I 
suppose  we  shall  come  to  it  in  time." 

«  The  folks  don't  come  to  me,"  said  his  spouse  ;  "  that 's  the  mess 
ofiu" 


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40  THE  LUCKY   GROCER. 

Meanwhile  time  went  on,  and  Sammy  made  great  progress  in  his 
education  with  Tom.  He  had  learned  which  side  to  get  upon  his 
horse,  to  turn  in  his  toes,  to  walk  the  horse,  to  hob  up  and  down  in 
his  trot,  to  canter,  to  gallop,  to  leap  a  small  ditch,  to  hold  on  be- 
hind instead  of  by  the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  and,  last  of  all,  he  had 
ridden  repeatedly  over  a  leaping. bar,  bound*  with,  furze  bushes. 
"Now,  master,"  said  Tom,  *'  I  think  we  might  venture  to  shew  the 
red  coat  out  with  the  hounds." 

"  Bo  you  really  think  so,  Tom.  Oh  Tom  I  I  have  seen  such  pic- 
tures of  five-barred  gates,  ox  fences,  and  horses  Jeaping  over  brooks, 
that  it  almost  makes  my  blood  run  cold  to  look  at  them." 

"  Them 's  only  pictures,"  said  Tom,  encouragingly.  "  Most  folks  only 
lookjat  them  kind  offences,  and  then  rides  round  and  opens  agate.^ 

'*  There  '9  another  thing  I  want  to  learn,  Tom.  How  do  you' Cry 
f  lalfyho  I  * "    Tom  gave  him  a  specimen.    .        * 

"  And  what  sort  of  a  thing  is  a  '  view  hollar  ?  ' "       . 

When  he  had  also  given  mm  a  specimen  of  this,  Sammy  temavk- 
ed,  that  he  thought  he  riiould  do. 

It  was  arranged  that  the  tiext  hunting  day  Tom  was  to  ride 
Sammy's  horse:  quietly  on  to  cover,  and  Uiat  Sammy  was  to  arrive 
there  in  the  carriage,  iii  hilB  full  hunting  costume,  accompanied  by 
his  father,  mother,  and  sister,  who  were  anxious  to  see  the  ^art. 
Sttn's  turn-out  at  the  cover  side  was  unexceptionable,*  and  his  gtAd 
fox  glistened  in  the  sun.  -As  he  tck>k  the  reins  oiit  of  Tom's  hiuid, 
however,  his  courage  alU^therf<uied.  . 

"  What  in  the  'varsal'world  am:  I  to  do  noiw,  Tom^  Coold  not 
you  contrive  to  run  a  little  with  us  ron  foot  ?  " 

^    '^*Do  you  see  that  elderly  thin  gentlem'to  there,  in  k  verr'i^tained 

coat,  ana  a.bay>hor»e  ?  |ust  foHpw  hhn,  and  you  will  be  all  right."  * 

'  **  He  *s  a  spoony  looking  chap,  I  think,  with  a  werry  sleepy  horse.*! 

**  If  you  follow -him,  you*  wilibeall  fright,"  ^repeated  Tom. 

The  fox  was  found,  and  hounds  went  away;  Sammy  stuck  to 
his  friend  the  dderly. thin  gentleman,  who  led  him  first  thro^gh  one 
gate,  through  a  second,  and  then  through  a  ^rd,  rather  to  the  right 
of  the  rest  of  the  field.  ^'  I  said  the  fellow  was  a  spoion,  and  dmi't 
know  how  to  leap,"  thought  Sam  to  himself.  ^  Next  came  a  large 
grass  field,  divided  in  the  centre  by  a  post  and  rail.  **  That  chap 's 
blind,"  thought  Sam  ;  '*^he  xion't  see  the  rail."  The  ddcfrly  gentle- 
man's horse  took  in  his  stride/ as  a  thing  not  worth  noticing,  and 
over  went  Sammy's  nng  too,  iii  spite  pf  all  his  rider  could  do  to  re- 
strain him.  The  horse  alighted  on  his  legs,' but  Sammy  alighted 
on  his  head.  ''  There 's  one  of  the  gt-een  collars  spiU,"  said  a  far- 
mer,  who  rode  over  the  rail  near  him.  Up  jumped  Sammy,  none 
the  worse,  and  the  air  resounded  with  '^  Stop  my  horse  1  stop  my 
horse !  Pray,  sir,  stop  my  horse !  "  But  the  observation  about  the 
ffreen  collar  being  spilt,  was  the  only  notice  that  anybody  took  of 
him.  Sam  ran  on  till  he  was  well  blown.  At  length  he  saw  in  the 
distance  a  man  with  a  smock  frock  holding  his  horse.  Now,  mount- 
ed again,  he  followed  the  track  of  the  horses.  At  length  he  came 
within  sight  of  his  fellow- sportsmen,  now  standing,  now  cantering 
across  half  a  field,  and  stopping  again.  Sam's  blood  was  now  up. 
He  passed  them  all  in  the  full  gallon,  and  rode  right  in  among  the 
hounds,  shouting  '*  tally  ho !  "  and  giving  the  "  view  hollow  "  in  the 
manner  that  Tom  had  instructed. 

'*  Hold  hard  ;  hold  hard,"  cried  everybody. 


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THE  LUCKY   GROCEB.  41 

**  I  can  ride  vithoat  holdings  you  snobs,"  was  Sam's  reply, 

Tbe  master  of  the  hoands  now  rode  up  to  Sam^  and  treated  him 
to  such  a  specimen  of  the  Engh'sh  language  as  surprised  him  amaz<- 
iogly.  In  due  course  of  time  the  fox  was  killed,  and  Sam  bad  the 
fortune  to  be  in  at  the  death.  He  saw  some  whisperings  and  people 
looking  at  him.  At  length  one  of  the  green  collars  approached  him, 
— "  I  think,  sir,  this  is  the  first  time  that  you  ever  was  out  hunting  ?** 

"  It  is,  sir,"  said  Sam. 

Instantly  the  inside  of  the  fox  was  rubbed  on  his  face. 

Sam  swore,  and  kicked,  and  rushed  after  the  offending  green 
collar  with  his  hunting  whip,  but  the  rest  of  the  sportsmen  threw 
themselves  between  them,  sayinff,  ''It's  all  fair;  everybody  is 
blooded  to  the  fox  the  first  time  he  comes  out  hunting.  We  were 
all  blooded  ourselves." 

Sam  rode  home,  pondering  to  himself  the  peculiar  language  used 
by  masters  of  hounds,  and  the  singular  manner  that  fox-hunters 
have  of  welcoming  a  new  member  of  their  fraternity.  When  he 
got  home,  he  threw  himself  in  an  arm-chair,  saying,  ''  Mother,  this 
genteel  society  is  a  werry  rum  thing.  Genteel  people  swear  a  good 
deal  more  than  they  do  about  Barbican,  only  they  uses  rather  diffe- 
rent words."  After  a  pause,  he  added,"  I  wonder,  mother,  whether 
It  would  be  werry  difficult  to  learn.  They  have  some  very  nasty 
tricks  among  them  too."  But  he  made  no  farther  allusion  to  the 
initiatory  process. 

After  tea,  that  evening,  a  sort  of  cabinet  council  was  held,  which 
iAd  Sims  opened  in  the  following  set  speech : — 

''  I  am  a  gentleman.  I  knows  wery  well  that  it 's  not  on  account  of 
my  family  or  of  my  edication.  It 's  all  along  of  my  money,  that 's 
what  it  is.  Now  I 'm  thinking,  if  we  were  to  give  these  genteel 
folks  a  regular  good  feed,  in  the  money-no-object  fashion,  these 
fellers  would  treat  us  with  more  respect  and  attention,  particular 
when  they  seed  that  them  as  weren't  civil  would  not  get  no  feed. 
We  '11  advertize  the  bill  of  fare  as  is  to  be,  in  the  county  paper,  a 
fortnight  before  the  time,  same  as  the  Lord  Mayor  advertizes  his  'n." 

Lawyer  Craggs  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  Mr.  Craggs,  if  it  ain't  the  genteel  thing  to  put  it  in  the 
paper,  Sam  can  drop  hints  out  hunting  about  turtle,  and  venison, 
and  champagne,  and  peacocks,  and  guinea  fowls,  and  salmon,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"  I  'm  afraid  that  your  scheme  wont  succeed,"  said  Mrs.  Sims. 
'When  folks  hears  of  the  dainties,  they  11  all  be  wanting  to  come, 
and  we  shall  make  more  enemies  by  those  we  leave  out,  than  we 
shall  make  friends,  by  feeding  those  that  we  ax." 

Old  Sims,  however,  overruled  this  objection  by  observing,  "  then 
we  11  only  have  to  give  them  another  tuck  out" 

The  landlord  of  the  "Cock  and  Bottle "  was  written  to  to  send 
down  a  London  cook. 

Craggs  undertook  to  provide  all  the  delicacies,  which  he  knew 
how  to  provide  cheaper  and  better  than  anybody  else. 

Letters  of  invitation  were  sent  to  the  aristocracy  of  the  county, 
and  in  due  time  the  answers  came  in.  "  Lord  Woodland  presents 
his  compliments,  and  regrets  that  a  previous  engagement  must  pre- 
vent his  having  the  honour  of  waiting,"  &c. 

"  Why,"  said  Mrs.  Sims,  "  Sir  Henry  Heath  says  the  very  same 
words." 


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42  THE  LUCKY   GROCER. 

**  D^rehBj  they  dine  toeether/'  said  Sam, 
.    "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Howard  are  both  indisposed.    Just  the  influenza/' 
said  Sally. 

"Here's  a  rum 'un.  What's  the  meaning  of  this:  ^'Captain 
Pratt  has  not  the  honour  of  Mr.  Sims'  acquaintance." 

"  What  a  silly  man,"  said  Mrs.  Sims,  we  do  not  want  to  know 
about  his  acquaintance,  but  whether  he  will  help  us  to  eat  our  dinner 
or  not.     Acquaintance  is  easy  enough  made." 

"The  letter  signifies,"  said  Graggs,  with  a  legal  air, "  that  Captain 
Pratt  won't  come." 

"  Here 's  another  letter.  I  suppose  that  it  is  another  '  can 't  come.' 
No.  '  Mrs.  Grorgon,  Miss  Gorgon,  and  Miss  Julia  Oorgon,  will  have 
the  honour  of  waiting  upon  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sims  to  dinner.'  " 

Mrs.  Sims  then  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair,  convulsed  with 
laughter.  "  Waiting  upon  us !  ha !  ha  1  Waiting,  ha !  wait,  ha ! 
ha !  why,  we  wanted  her  to  eat" 

Craggs  had  great  difficulty  in  explaining  to  the  grocer's  family 
that  Mrs.  Gorgon  had  only  adopted  the  usual  form  of  accepting  an 
invitation. 

"  My  !  what  a  queer  thing  genteel  society  is  surely." 
.  "  What 's  to  be  done  now,  missis  ?"  said  old  Sims  to  his  wife ; 
"  we  've  nobody  coming  but  that  she  dragon  ;  we  want'a  whole  lot 
of  people  to  eat  such  a  dinner  as  I  have  ordered.    We  must  have 
some  of  our  Barbican  folks  down  by  the  rail,  that's  what  it  is." 

"  There's  Butcher  Swiggins ;  he'd  eat  enough  for  two,  and  a  tole- 
rable ffenteel-looking  man  besides,  and  Brown  and  Tomkins  both 
genteel-looking  people." 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  some  of  my  young  friends,"  said  Sammy  ; 
"  just  Jack  Tippens  and  Blue  Benjamin." 

"  They'll  do  nicely,"  said  Mrs.  Sims.  «  We'll  just  think  of  one  or 
two  more ;  they  can  come  down  by  the  rail  in  time  for  dinner,  and 
those  that  are  obliged  to  be  in  shop  in  the  morning  may  go  back 
by  the  mail  train." 

"  Madam,"  said  Craggs,  respectfully,  "  I  am  afraid — but  I  really 
don't  think  that  all  the  friends  you  have  mentioned  have  got  a  sin- 
gle pair  of  silk  stockings  among  them." 

"  Body  of  me !"  said  Mr.  Sims,  "  and  is  it  absolutely  impossible 
to  eat  a  dinner  without  silk  stockings." 

"  In  genteel  society,  absolutely  impossible." 

"  Hang  me,  mother !"  said  Sammv,  **  if  I  do  not  think  that  there 
is  nearly  as  much  sour  as  sweet  in  this  genteel  society." 

"  Stockings  or  no  stockings,"  said  old  Sims,  "  I  will  ax  my  party." 

And  what  is  more,  the  party  all  arrived ;  and  a  very  nice  set  Mrs. 
Gorgon,  Miss  Gorgon,  and  Miss  Julia  Gorgon  found  upon  their 
arrival.  Well,  dinner  passed  off  very  joyously  with  the  majority  of 
the  guests,  many  of  whom  when  asked  to  drink  wine,  preferred  gin. 

Old  Sims  and  a  steady  old  friend  of  his,  Joe  Brown,  followed  soon 
afler  the  ladies  into  the  drawing-room.  This,  however,  was  only  a 
signal  for  the  others  to  proceed  to  business.  Gin  and  punch  was 
generally  preferred  to  wine.  Sam  produced  a  box  of  cigars,  with 
pipes  for  those  that  preferred  them.  They  had  promised  old  Sims 
not  to  sit  long^  and  they  kept  their  word  :  but,  making  the  best  of 
their  time,  thev  contrived  to  make  themselves  royally  drunk  before 
they  got  into  the  drawing-room,  where  Mrs.  and  the  Misses  Gorgon 
were  very  much  astonished  at  the  broadness  of  the  jokes  that  were 


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THE  LUCKY   GROCER.  48 

sported  by  Sims's  metropoliUn  friends.  As  soon  as  their  carriage 
was  announced,  Mrs.  (Corson  rose  to  depart 

Swiggins,  Sam,  and  Buie  Benjamin  insisted  on  helping  them  on 
with  their  shawls ;  and,  according  to  the  custom  of  Barbican  and 
Long  Lane,  each  embraced  his  lady,  and  gave  her  a  spanking  kiss. 
Miss  Julia  gave  a  screech  as  if  the  world  was  coming  to  an  end. 
Mias  Gk>rgon  clawed  a  piece  out  of  her  admirer's  cheek,  while  the 
old  lady  hallooed  out  murder. 

*'  There 's  a  spree  for  you,  old  six-and-eightpenny !"  said  Sammy, 
clapping  Craggs  on  the  bag. 

Mrs.  Sims  expressed  to  Craggs  a  fear  that  they  hail,  in  some  par- 
ticalar,  transgressed  the  customary  usages  of  genteel  society. 

Craggs  said  it  was  nothing ; — folks  were  always  apt  to  be  a  little 
merry  after  a  good  dinner.  Not  so,  however,  Mrs.  Oorgon,  who 
went  open-mouthed  through  the  county,  complaining  of  the  com- 
pany that  she  was  asked  to  meet  at  Primrose  Hall,  and  the  horrid 
and  indelicate  treatment  that  she  had  met  with. 

The  Simses  were  in  consequence  cut  by  their  neighbours,  and 
they  saw  no  visitors  but  those  that  came  down  from  Barbican  or 
Long  Lane.  Meanwhile  Old  Sims  was  buying  shares  in  one  railway, 
and  sellinff  them  in  another,  according  to  the  direction  of  Cragffs, 
who  told  him  that  he  would  double  his,  fortune  in  a  few  months' 
time. 

At  length  came  the  railway  crash,— down  went  shares  to  nothing. 
Old  Sims  was  ruined.  He  wrote  to  Craggs  for  an  explanation. 
Craggs  in  reply  sent  in  his  own  bill  for  fifteen  hundred  pound.  All 
the  time  he  had  spent  with  the  Simses  he  had  charged  at  the  highest 
rate  of  professional  attendance.  The  mask  was  of  no  further  use  to 
him,  so  ne  threw  it  down. 

Sims  then  went  to  another  attorn^,  whose  character  for  integrity 
stood  high,  and  begged  him  to  look  into  his  accounts. 

"  I  fear  you  're  ruined,"  said  Mr.  Vellum,  after  he  had  gone 
through  the  paper. 

*'  A^  pTMj,  Mr.  Vellum,  what  do  people  generally  do  in  my  cir- 
cumstances ?" 

"  They  go  abroad,  sir, — universally  go    abroad,  —  general  I  v  to 

.  Boulogne, — ^indeed,  always  go  to  Boulogne ; — ^very  agreeable  place, 

I  hear — ^provisional  directors  club  there,  for  which  you  are  qualified 

— very  agreeable— view  of  the  sea— billiard-room,  and  all  that  sort 

of  thing.    Everything  is  very  genteel  there." 

''  I  hate  and  detest  all  genteel  things,"  said  Sims. 

Vellum  at  length  wound  up  the  accounts,  and  found  a  small  resi- 
due.  Sims  had  enough  left  to  yield  him  sixty  pounds  a  year  when 
invested  in  the  funds,  besides  two  hundred  pounds  to  stocK  his  shop 
with  again.  Everything  he  had  was  sold,  except  one  bottle  of 
champagne  that  he  took  with  hira  to  town.  His  shop  had  been  let 
for  a  year.  When  the  lease  was  at  an  end,  Sims  purchased  the 
stock  of  his  tenant,  and  the  next  day  appeared  behind  the  counter ; 
and  everything  appeared  the  same  as  if  he  had  never  left  it. 

When  dinner-time  came,  he  opened  his  bottle  of  champagne,  and 
all  his  family  drank  success  to  the  old  shop.  When  the  bottle  was 
empty,  he  pitched  it  through  his  back  window,  and  laughed  joyously 
as  he  beard  it  crash  upon  the  pavement. 

'<  There 's  the  last  of  our  genteel  life,  and  /  'm  glad  of  t/." 

*'  Amen,*'  said  his  family. 


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44 


FETES  AT  MADRID.* 

TUB     1I0NTPEN8IER     MARBIAOE. 

Wb  have  been  leading  such  a  life  of  gaiety  and  excitement,  at  Ma* 
drid,  that  I  find  I  have  actually  allowed  forty- eight  hours  to  pass 
without  writing  to  you,  and  telling  you  as  usual  all  that  has  happened 
here.  These  forty-eight  hours  have  passed  like  a  perpotual  mirage ; 
I  can  scarcely  say  that  I  have  seen,  yet  I  believe  tliat  I  have  seen/ites, 
illuminations,  bull-fights  and  ballets,  and  a  host  of  other  extraordinary 
things,  all  succeeding  each  other  with  as  much  rapidity  as  the  scenes 
of  a  theatre,  which  are  changed  at  the  whistle  of  the  scene-shifter. 
When  you  last  heard  of  us,  we  were  pushing  our  way  along  one  of 
those  gloomy  corridors  of  that  modem  tower  of  Babel  called  a  circus. 
At  the  end  of  this  corridor  a  light  burst  upon  us  so  suddenly  that  for  a 
moment  we  drew  back  quite  dazzled ;  those  who  have  never  lived  under 
the  burning  skies  of  Spain  cannot  imagine  how  intensely  brilliant  the 
light  of  the  sun  is  here,  nor  can  those  who  have  never  heard  the  tumult 
of  a  circus,  form  any  conception  of  the  uproar  and  disturbance  which 
reign  there.  Picture  to  yourself  an  amphitheatre  in  the  style  of  the 
hippodrome,  but  capable  of  containing  twenty  thousand  persons,  instead 
of  fifteen  thousana,  who  are  all  disposed  upon  benches  one  above  an« 
other,  for  which  different  prices  are  asked  as  they  are  more  or  less  shel- 
tered firom  the  sun. 

Spectators  who  take  what  are  called  sun-tickets,  are  exposed  to  its  full 
heat  during  the  whole  time  the  bull-fight  lasts.  Those  who  can  afford 
to  purchase  sun  and  shade  tickets,  have  such  a  position  given  them,  as 
that  by  the  daily  movement  of  the  earth  they  must  be  sheltered  part  of 
the  time  from  the  burning  rays  of  the  sun.  The  shade-tickets  are  of 
course  those  which  are  generally  sought  after,  fur  they  ensure  complete 

frotection  from  the  heat  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  spectacle, 
need  scarcely  say  that  we  tdok  care  to  secure  the  last  description  of 
tickets.  It  would  almost  be  impossible  for  you  to  imagine  the  extraordin- 
ary sensation  which  we  experienced  on  entering  this  glitterine  circus,  our 
first  impulse  was  to  start  back  a  step  or  two,  so  completely  dazzled  and 
bewildered  did  we  find  ourselves;  never  had  we  seen  so  many  parasols, 
fans,  and  pocket-handkerchiefs  in  agitation  at  the  same  moment,  never 
had  we  heard  the  hum  of  so  many  voices;  the  scene  presented  to  us  was 
certainly  one  of  the  most  curious  we  had  ever  witnessed.  I  will  en-> 
deavour  to  give  you  some  idea  of  the  appearance  of  the  arena  at  the 
precise  instant  we  arrived.  We  were  exactly  opposite  the  tort'//  a 
boy  belonging  to  the  circus,  decorated  from  head  to  foot  with  ribbons, 
had  just  received  from  the  hands  of  the  alguazil  the  key  of  this  door, 
which  he  was  preparing  to  open.  The  piccadors  already  seated  in 
their  Arabian  saddles,  with  their  lances  couched,  had  placed  themselves 
on  the  left  of  the  bull,  which  seemed  eager  to  rush  out;  the  rest  of  the 
quadrille,  that  is  to  say,  the  chulos,  the  banderilleros,  and  the  torero 
stood  on  the  right  hand  side,  dispersed  about  the  arena  like  pawns  npon 
a  chess  board.  First  I  must  explain  to  you  what  the  office  of  the  picca- 
dor  is,  next  that  of  the  chulo,  the  banderillero,  and  the  torero,  and, 
as  far  as  possible,  I  will  bring  before  your  eyes  the  theatre  upon  which 
they  were  going  to  perform  their  different  parts.     The  piccador,  whc^ 

*  From  the  French  of  Alejcander  Dumas. 

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FfeTES   AT   MADRID.  45 

accordjng  to  my  idea,  runs  the  greatest  risk  of  any  of  the  combatants, 
18  mounted  on  horseback,  bearing  his  lance  in  his  hand  ready  to  receive 
the  ball's  attack.     This  lance  is  not  a  regular  weapon  of  war,  but 
merely  a  sort  of  spur,  the  steel  point  at  the  end  being  of  only  sufficient 
length  to  enter  the  (\e\*h  of  the  animal's  skin;  its  use  is  to  increase 
the  bull's  fury,  ir    >T*^.e^  to  expose  the  piccador  to  a  more  fierce  attack  on 
account  of  the  ago<<y  which  the  animal  endures.     The  piccador  runs  a 
double  dan^r,  the  c'^ance  of  being  crushed  by  his  horse,  or  gored  by 
the  bnU.    His  lance  is  his  only  offensive  weapon,  and  by  way  of  defence, 
he  wears  leggings  of  steel,  mounting  nearly  to  the  thigh,  covered  with 
pantaloons  of  skin.   The  office  of  the  chulo  is  to  draw  off  the  animal's  at- 
tention to  himself  whenever  it  is  on  the  point  of  exhausting  its  fury  upon 
a  fallen  horse,  or  upon  an  unhorsed  piccador.     The  banderillero  takes 
care  that  the  rage  of  the  bull  does  not  cool,  it  is  his  business,  when  he 
perceives  that  the  animal  is  about  to  shrink  from  further  exertion,  worn 
out  by  the  torment  it  endures,  to  drive  the  banderillas  into  its  shoulders. 
The  banderillas  are  formed  of  little  rings  through  which  are  drawn 
paper  of  different  colours,  cut  out  in  the  same  form  as  that  which  adorns 
a  boy's  kite;  these  rings  are  driven  into  the  flesh  by  means  of  a  piece  of 
iron  resembling  a  fish-hook.    But  the  torero  is  the  principal  actor  in 
the  scene,  to  him  the  circus  belongs,  he  is  the  general  who  directs  the 
combat,  the  rest  instinctively  obey  his  least  gesture,  even  the  bull  it 
subjected  to  his  power;  the  torero  can  lead  him  where  he  desires,  and 
when  the  moment  arrives  for  the  last  struggle  between  himself  and 
the  bull,  it  is  upon  the  spot  that  he  has  chosen,  reserving  to  himself 
all  the  advantages  of  sun  or  shade,  that  the  exhausted  animal  receives 
the  death-blow  from  the  fatal  spada,  and  expires  at  his  feet.     If  the 
£dr  mistress  of  the  torero  be  in  the  circus,  it  is  always  in  that 
part  of  the  arena  nearest  to  his  lady-love,  that  the  bull  receives  his 
death-blow.     There  is  to  every  combat  two  or  three  more  piccadora 
than  are  required  to  take  part  in  the  conflict,  in  case  the  piccadors  are 
wounded,  there  are  as  many  banderilleros,  and  as  many  chulos.     The 
number  of  toreros  is  not  fixed ;  in  this  bull-fight  there  were  three, 
Cnchares,  Lucas  Blanco,  and  Salamanchino.    Piccadors,  chulos,  ban- 
derilleros, and  toreros  were  all  richly  attired,  they  wore  short  jackets 
of  blue,  green,  or  rose-colour,  embroidered  with  gold  and  silver,  waist- 
coats similarly  embroidered  of  the  most  brilliant  colours,  but  still  blend- 
ing harmoniously  with  the  rest  of  their  dress,  their  small-clothes  were 
knitted,  and  they  wore  silk  stockings  and  satin  shoes;  a  girdle  of  the 
brightest  hue,  and  a  little  laced  black  hat  completed  their  elegant  cos- 
tume. 

From  the  actors  let  us  turn  our  attention  to  the  theatre.  Round  the 
arena,  which  is  as  magnificent  as  a  circus  in  tlie  time  of  Titus  or  Vespa- 
sian, is  a  partition  of  thick  boards  six  feet  high,  forming  a  circle  in  which 
are  enclosed  all  the  persons  I  have  been  describing,  from  the  piccador  to 
the  torero.  This  partition,  called  the  olivo,  is  painted  red  in  the  upper 
part  and  black  in  the  lower.  These  two  divisions  are  of  unequal  height, 
and  separated  by  a  plank  painted  white,  which  forms  a  projecting  edge, 
and  serves  as  a  stirrup  to  the  chulos,  banderilleros,  and  toreros,  when 
pursued  by  the  .bull,  on  this  they  place  their  foot,  and  by  the  aid  of 
their  hands  they  are  able  to  spring  over  the  barrier.  This  is  called 
lomar  el  oBvo,  that  is  '^  to  take  the  olive."  It  is  very  seldom  that 
the  torero  has  recourse  to  this  shelter,  he  may  turn  away  from  the  bull, 
but  he  would  consider  it  a  disgrace  to  fly  from  him.     On  the  other  side 


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46   .  FfiTES   AT  MADRID. 

of  this  first  partition  is  a  second  barrier^  this  partition  and  this  barrier 
form  a  passage;  into  this  passage  the  chulos  and  banderilleroe  jamp 
when  pursned  by  the  bull ;  here  the  alguazil  holds  in  readiness  the 
three  piccadors  and  the  cachetero,  here  too  are  amateurs  who  have 
a  firee  entrance.  I  have  not  yet  told  you  what  the  business  of  the 
cachetero  is  in  the  combat^  he  has  the  cowardly  part  of  the  work  to 
perform,  his  office  may  almost  be  considered  degrading.  When  the 
bull  is  beaten  down  by  the  spada  of  the  torero,  but  still  has  life  enough 
left  to  toss  up  his  foaming  and  bloody  head,  the  cachetero  leaps  over 
the  barrier,  and  steals  slyly  like  the  cat  or  the  wolf  till  he  reacnes  the 
£dlen  animal,  and  then  traitorously  passing  behind  him  gives  him  the 
finishing  stroke.  This  is  done  with  a  stiletto  in  the  form  of  a  heart, 
which  generally  separates  the  second  vertebra  of  the  neck  from  the 
third,  and  the  bull  falls  as  if  struck  by  a  thunderbolt  Havine  accom- 
plished this,  the  cachetero  creeps  back  to  the  barrier  with  the  same 
stealthy  step  as  before,  springs  over  it,  and  disappears.  This  first  bar- 
rier, over  which  as  I  have  before  mentioned,  the  chulos,  the  banderille- 
ros,  and  the  cachetero  climb,  is  not  always  a  place  of  safety,  bulls  have 
been  known  to  leap  it  with  as  much  ease  as  our  race  horses  spring  over 
a  hedge.  An  engraving  of  Ooya  represents  the  alcalde  of  Terrassona, 
miserably  gored  and  tr^den  under  foot  bv  a  bull  who  had  sprung  over 
the  barrier  after  him.  I  have  seen  a  bull  leap  three  successive  times 
from  the  arena  into  the  passage.  The  chulos  and  the  banderilleros 
jump  with  as  much  ease  from  tae  passage  into  the  arena  as  they  had 
previously  done  from  the  arena  into  the  passage;  the  boy  belonging  to 
the  circus  opens  a  door  for  the  bull  to  pass  through,  who  becomes 
furious  on  beholding  the  little  space  left  to  him,  and  darts  back  into 
the  lists  where  his  enemies  await  him.  Sometimes  the  arena  is  divided 
into  two  parts,  this  is  always  the  case  when  it  is  very  large.  Upon 
one  occasion,  at  the  Place  Mayor,  where  two  combats  take  place 
at  the  same  time,  two  bulls  sprang  together  from  the  lists  into  the 
passage,  the  consequence  was,  that  they  literally  tore  each  other  to 
pieces.  The  outer  partition  has  four  doors  situated  at  the  four  cardinal 
points,  through  two  of  these  doors  the  live  bulls  enter  the  arena,  and 
the  dead  bulls  are  carried  out*  Behind  the  second  burrier  rises  the 
amphitheatre  filled  with  benches,  which  are  thronged  with  spectators. 
The  music  stand  is  immediately  above  the  toril,  the  place  in  which  the 
bulls  are  shut  up.  The  bulls  intended  for  the  combat  are  generally 
taken  from  the  most  solitary  pastures,  brought  during  the  night  to  Ma* 
drid,  and  conveyed  to  the  toril  ,where  each  has  its  separate  stafi.  To  ren- 
der the  bull  additionally  fierce,  no  food  is  given  it  during  the  ten  or 
twelve  hours  that  it  is  shut  up  in  its  prison,  and  just  before  they  let  it 
out  into  the  arena,  in  order  to  make  it  quite  mad  with  rage,  they  drive 
a  bunch  of  ribbons  into  its  left  shoulder  by  means  of  a  sort  of  fish-hook, 
which  I  have  already  described;  the  colours  of  the  ribbon  are  generally 
those  of  its  owner.  To  obtain  this  bunch  of  ribbon  is  the  height  of 
the  chulos'  and  piccadors'  ambition,  it  is  considered  the  most  charming 
ofiTering  they  can  possibly  make  their  fur  mistress. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  bring  the  scene  before  you,  and  I  shall  pro- 
ceed to  give  you  a  descripti<m  of  the  bull-fight.  We  were  exactly  op- 
posite the  toril,  as  I  before  mentioned,  on  our  right  was  the  queen's 
box,  and  on  our  left  the  ayuntamiento,  somebody  answering  to  our 
mayor  and  the  officers  of  the  municipality.  We  looked  on  the  arena  in 
an  agony  of  suspense,  our  faces  were  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  our  eyes 


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F&TES  AT   MADRID.  47 

almost  started  out  of  onr  beads  with  fright.  Rocca  de  Togores  tat  on 
my  left  8ide>  that  elegant  poet  of  whom  I  spoke  to  yon,  and  on  my 
right  side  were  Alexandre,  Maquet,  and  Boulanger  Oirand,  and  Des- 
bux)lles  stood  on  the  second  bench,  dressed  in  an  Andalusian  costume. 
They  had  seen  ten  bull-fights  before,  and  looked  upon  us  with  that  air 
of  sovereisn  contempt  with  which  the  old  grumblers  of  the  empire 
regarded  Uie  conscripts. 

The  boy  opened  the  door  of  the  toril,  and  drew  back  behind  it ; 
the  bull  made  its  appearance,  advanced  a  few  steps,  then  stopped 
suddenly,  dazzled  by  the  light  and  bewildered  by  the  noise.  It 
was  a  black  bull  bearing  the  colours  of  Ossuna,  and  of  Veragua 
(the  Duke  de  Veragua  is  the  last  descendant  of  Christopher  Co* 
lumbus),  his  mouth  was  white  with  foam,  and  his  eyes  seemed  posi- 
tiyely  to  flash  lightning.  I  honestly  confess  to  you,  that  my  heart  beat 
as  if  I  was  going  to  take  part  in  a  duel.  ''  Look,  look,"  said  Roeca, 
^'  he  is  a  capital  bull."  Scarcely  had  Rocca  pronounced  his  opinion 
when  the  bull,  as  if  anxious  to  confirm  it,  sprang  upon  the  first  piccador. 
Vainly  did  the  piccador  try  to  arrest  his  progress  with  the  lance,  the 
bull  threw  himself  upon  the  steel  point,  and  attacking  the  horse  in 
his  chest,  drove  his  horns  into  the  poor  animal's  heart,  and  lifted  it 
entirely  from  the  ground,  so  that  its  four  feet  were  kicking  in  the  air. 
The  piccador  knew  that  his  horse  was  lost,  in  an  instant  he  grappled 
with  the  edge  of  the  barrier,  and,  extricating  himself  from  his  stirrupt, 
climbed  over  it  just  as  his  horse  fell  on  the  other  side.  The  horse  tned 
to  raise  itself,  but  the  blood  flowed  through  two  wounds  in  its  chest  at 
through  a  waterspout ;  he  struggled  a  moment  and  then  fell,  and  the 
bull  vented  his  rage  upon  him,  wounding  him  in  a  dozen  other  places. 
**  Bravo,"  cried  Rocca;  ^'he  is  a  first-rate  bull,  and  the  combat  will  be 
a  glorious  one."  I  turned  towards  my  companions:  Boulanger  had 
borne  this  spectacle  pretty  well,  but  Alexandre  was  as  pale  as  death,  and 
Maquet  wiped  the  damp  from  his  forehead.  The  second  piccador,  per- 
ceivug  that  the  bull  was  exhausting  his  fury  upon  the  horse  in  its  last 
agony,  left  the  barrier,  and  came  up  to  him*  Though  his  horse  had  its 
eyes  Inuidaged,  it  reared  up  as  if  it  felt  instinctively  that  its  master  was 
leading  it  to  certain  death. 

When  the  bnll  beheld  his  new  antagonist,  he  rushed  upon  him, 
and  what  happened  was  the  work  of  an  instant^  the  horse  was 
thrown  backwards,  and  fell  with  all  its  weieht  upon  the  breast  of 
its  rider,  we  could  almost  declare  that  we  neard  his  bones  crack. 
An  universal  huzza  burst  forth,  twenty  thousand  voices  shouted  at 
the  same  time,  "  Bravo,  toro !  bravo,  toro  I"  Rocca  joined  with  the 
rest,  and  upon  my  word  I  could  not  help  following  his  example. 
*^  Bravo,  bravo !"  cried  I ;  and  certainly  at  that  moment  the  animal 
looked  magnificent,  the  whole  of  its  bodv  was  jet  black,  and  the  blood 
of  its  two  adversaries  streamed  over  its  head,  upon  its  shoulders,  like  a 
flowing  purple  head-dress.  "  Humph  I "  said  Rocca,  **  did  I  not  tell 
you  that  he  was  a  capital  bull?  c'esl  un  taureau  collanL"  Un  taureau 
coUant  is  one  that  after  having  overthrown  his  victim  turns  again  and 
vents  his  fury  upon  him.  This  bnll  not  only  fell  upon  the  horse,  but 
endeavoured  to  drag  the  piccador  from  underneath  it.  Cuchares,  who 
was  the  torero  of  this  conflict  made  a  sign  to  the  chulos  and  banderille- 
roB,  and  they  immediately  surrounded  the  buU*  In  the  middle  of  this 
tioop  was  Lucas  Blanco,  another  torero  whom  I  have  already  named,  a 
handsome  young  man  about  four  or  five  and  twenty,  who  has  only  been 


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48  F&TE8  AT   MADRip. 

torero  the  last  two  years.  For  a  moment  his  enthusiasm  almost  durried 
him  away»  he  slishtly  forgot  his  dignity  and  mixed  with  the  chalo8« 
By  waving  their  cloaks  berore  the  biul>  the  chulos  at  length  succeeded 
in  drawing  it  away  from  the  piccador  and  the  horse ;  it  lifted  up  its 
head^  stared  at  this  fresh  party  of  enemies,  and  at  the  gaudy  cloaks 
which  they  waved,  and  then  sprang  upon  Lucas  Blanco,  who  was 
nearest  to  it.  Lucas  contented  himself  with  making  a  slight  pirouette 
on  his  heel,  with  the  most  perfect  grace,  and  the  utmost  compo- 
sure, and  the  bull  passed  by  him.  The  chulos,  pursued  by  it,  rushed 
towards  the  barrien  the  last  must  actually  have  felt  the  animal's 
breath  scorching  his  shoulders,  they  seemed  really  to  fly  over  the  bar- 
rier, for  their  flowing  green,  blue,  and  rose-coloured  mantles  made 
them  look  like  birds  with  their  mngs  spread.  The  bull  drove  his 
horns  into  the  barrier,  and  completely  nailed  the  last  chulo*s  cloak  to 
it,  who,  on  springing  over  to  the  other  side,  threw  his  mantle  over  the 
bull's  head.  The  animal  managed  to  extricate  his  horns  from  the 
planksy  but  he  could  not  succeed  in  disembarrassing  himself  of  the 
cloak,  which  in  a  few  seconds  became  stained  with  large  purple  spots 
from  the  blood  which  flowed  over  his  shoulders;  he  stampea  impatient- 
ly on  the  edge  of  the  doak,  but  the  centre  was  pinned  by  his  horns  to 
his  head.  One  moment  he  turned  furiously  upon  himself,  and  the 
next  he  had  rent  the  mantle  into  a  thousand  pieces,  one  shred  of  it 
alone  remained  fixed  to  his  right  horn  like  a  streamer.  As  soon  as  he 
had  disengaged  himself  and  could  see,  he  embraced  with  a  sullen  and 
rapid  glance  the  whole  arena.  The  heads  of  the  fugitive  chulos  and 
bandenlleros  now  began  to  make  their  appearance  above  the  barrier, 
they  were  preparing  to  leap  again  into  the  circus  as  soon  as  the  bull 
should  have  withdrawn  himself  to  some  distance.  Lucas  Blanco  and 
Cachares  stood  in  the  same  part  of  the  arena  calmly  gazing  at  each 
other ;  while  three  men  were  removing  the  wounded  picc^or  £rom 
underneath  the  horse,  and  trying  to  place  him  on  his  feet,  he  staggered 
on  his  legs,  which  were  encumbered  with  steel,  he  was  as  pale  as  death, 
and  the  blood  oozed  from  his  lips.  Of  the  two  horses,  one  was  quite 
dead,  the  other  still  lived>  but  b^  his  violent  plunging  he  was  evidently 
in  his  last  agony.  The  third  piccador,  the  only  one  of  them  who  had 
kept  his  position,  sat  motionless  on  his  horse  like  a  bronze  statue. 
After  wayering  an  instant,  the  bull  seemed  to  form  a  sudden  resolu- 
tion ;  his  eye  rested  upon  the  group  which  was  carrying  ofi^  the  wounded 
piccador;  ne  scratched  up  the  sand  impatiently  and  spurted  it  to 
such  height  that  it  reached  the  benches  of  the  amphitheatre;  then 
lowering  his  nose  to  the  level  of  the  furrow  which  he  had  just  made  in 
the  sand,  he  tossed  up  his  head,  bellowed  loudly  and  darted  upon  the 
group.  The  three  men  who  were  supporting  the  wounded  piccador 
abandoned  him,  and  ran  towards  the  barrier.  The  piccador,  though 
nearly  fainting,  was  still  conscious  of  his  danger,  he  moved  forward  two 
stepsj  struck  his  hands  wildly  in  the  air,  and  then  fell  in  trying  to 
make  another  step.  The  bull  rushed  towards  him,  but  in  its  way  it 
met  with  an  obstacle. 

The  last  piccador  had  by  this  time  left  his  position,  and  attempted 
to  throw  himself  between  his  wounded  companion  and  the  furious 
animal,  but  the  bull  bent  his  lance  like  a  reed,  and  only  gave  him  a 
blow  with  his  horns  in  passing.  The  horse,  however,  which  was  seri- 
ously wounded,  suddenly  wheeled  round  and  started  oif  with  his  mas- 
ter to  the  further  end  of  the  arena.     Now>  the  bull  appeared  to  hesi- 


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F&TBS   AT   MADRID.  49 

tate  between  the  horse,  which  wa«  yet  alive^  and  the  piccador  who 
seemed  dead.  He  fell  upon  the  horse^  and  having  trodden  him  under 
foot,  and  wounded  him  desperately  in  several  places,  leflfc  the  streamer 
which  had  decorated  his  horn,  in  one  of  the  wounds,  and  darted  upon 
the  wounded  man,  whom  Lucas  Blanco  was  endeavouring  to  support 
upon  one  knee.  The  circus  rang  with  applause ;  the  cries  o^f  '^  Bravo, 
toro  1"  seemed  as  if  they  would  never  cease.  The  bull  sprang  upon 
Lucas  Blanco  and  the  piccador ;  Lucas  stepped  aside,  and  spread  his 
mantle  between  the  wounded  man  and  the  bull;  the  bull  was  de- 
ceived, and  darted  upon  the  waving  cloak.  Meanwhile  the  chulos  and 
banderilleros  had  leaped  into  the  arena,  and  the  valets  of  the  circus 
had  come  to  the  assistance  of  the  wounded  piccador,  who>  supported  by 
them,  managed  to  reach  the  barrier.  The  whole  party  now  surround- 
ed the  bull  with  their  floating  mantles,  but  the  bull  gazed  only  upon 
Lucas  Blanco ;  it  was  plainly  a  struggle  between  this  man  and  the  furi- 
ous animal,  and  no  other  attack  would  draw  off  its  attention. 

''  Back,  Lucas !  back  1"  shouted  all  the  chulos  and  banderilleros  at 
the  same  moment ;  ''  back  !  back,  Lucas  ! "  cried  Cochares.  Lucas 
gazed  scornfully  at  the  bull,  which  was  tearing  onwards  towards  him 
with  its  head  lowered;  he  placed  his  foot  with  the  moat  perfect 
ease  between  the  two  horns,  and  jumped  over  its  head.  The  circus 
actually  shook  with  applause;  the  spectators  did  not  shout,  they 
roared  forth  their  approbation.  **  Bravo,  Lucas  V  cried  twenty  thou- 
sand voices ;  "  Viva,  Lucas !  viva !  viva  f"  the  men  threw  their  hats 
and  petacas  into  the  arena,  while  the  women  showered  bouquets  and 
fans  upon  him.  Lucas  bowed  and  smiled,  as  if  he  were  playing  with 
a  kid.  But  these  tumultuous  shouts  did  not  turn  the  bull  from  the 
object  of  his  vengeance ;  he  kept  his  eye  stedfastly  fixed  upon  Lucas, 
and  none  of  the  streaming  mantles  could  make  him  forget  the  pale 
blue  cloak,  against  which  he  had  before  vainly  struck.  He  darted 
again  upon  Lucas,  but  this  time  he  calculated  his  spring  that  he  might 
not  fail  to  reach  him ;  Lucas  avoided  him  by  a  dexterous  bound,  but 
the  animal  was  only  four  paces  from  him,  and  he  turned  upon  Lucas 
without  giving  him  a  moment's  pause.  Lucas  threw  his  cloak  over  its 
head,  and  be^m  stepping  backwards  towards  the  barrier.  The  bull's 
vision  was  obscured  for  an  instant,  and  his  adversary  gained  a  few 
steps  in  advance ;  but  the  cloak  was  soon  torn  to  ribbons,  and  the  bull 
daited  once  more  upon  bis  enemy.  It  was  now  a  question  of  agilit]^ ; 
woold  Lucas  reach  the  barrier  before  the  bull,  or  would  the  bull  gain 
npon  Lucas  before  he  could  climb  the  barrier  ?  As  ill-luck  would  have 
it,  Lucas  stepped  upon  a  bouquet  of  flowers  and  fell :  a  piercing  scream 
was  uttered  by  all  the  spectators,  and  then  profound  silence  succeeded. 
A  cloud  seemed  to  pass  before  my  eyes,  but  amidst  it,  I  saw  a  man 
thrown  fifteen  feet  high ;  and,  the  most  curious  circumstance  was,  that 
in  spite  of  the  extreme  agitation  which  I  felt,  I  remember  perfectly  the 
minutest  details  of  poor  Lucas's  dress ;  his  little  blue  jacket,  embroi- 
dered with  silver,  his  rose-coloured  waistcoat  with  chaced  buttons,  and 
his  white  slashed  small  clothes.  He  fell  flat  upon  the  ground ;  the 
bull  awaited  him,  but  another  adversary  also  awaited  the  bull.  The 
first  piccador  mounted  upon  a  fresh  horse  reentered  the  arena,  and 
attacked  the  animal  at  the  very  moment  he  was  about  to  gore  Lucas 
with  his  horns.  The  bull  felt  himself  wounded,  and  lifted  up  his 
head  as  if  he  was  sure  of  finding  Lucas  were  he  left  him,  and  thus 
sprang  upon  the  piccador.    Scarcely  had  he  released  Lucas,  before 

VOL.  XXIII.  B 


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60  F&TB8  AT  MADRID. 

Lucas  raised  himself  upon  his  feet  and  smiled^  as  he  gracefdlly  bowed 
to  the  public  By  a  perfect  miracle  the  horns  had  not  touched  his 
body>  it  was  only  the  fore  part  of  the  animal's  head  which  had  tossed 
him  into  the  air,  and  by  a  second  miracle,  too,  he  fell  to  the  ground 
without  meeting  with  the  slightest  injury.  Shouts  of  joy  now  burst 
from  the  spectators,  and  everybody  seemed  able  to  breathe  again. 

At  this  moment  a  general  disturbance  arose,  the  trumpets  sounded; 
announcing  some  new  and  unforeseen  event.  This  was  the  arrival 
of  the  queen-mother,  that  beautiful  and  el^ant  woman  whom  you 
have  seen  in  Paris.  She  really  looks  like  the  eldest  sister  of  her 
daughter;  and  appears  to  take  as  much  pleasure  in  the  bull-fights 
as  a  simple  marquise.  On  this  occasion  she  had  contrived  to  steal 
away  from  the  fetes  of  the  day^  that  she  might  pass  an  hour  in  this 
agitating  scene,  which  we  found  so  infatuating.  Scarcely  had  the 
trumpets  announced  her  arrival — scarcely  had  she  made  her  appear- 
ance in  the  penumbra  of  her  box,  when^  as  if  by  magic>  the  whole 
drama  in  the  circus  was  suspended.  The  quadrille  left  the  piccador, 
the  horse,  and  the  bull,  to  get  out  of  the  amur  as  best  they  could,  and 
drew  themselves  up  in  procession  opposite  to  the  toril.  Cuchares, 
Salamanchino,  and  Lucas  Blanco,  walked  first  and  behind  them  came 
the  three  piccadors.  The  wounded  piccador  whom  we  had  thought 
dead,  had  mounted  a  fresh  horse,  and,  but  for  his  extreme  pallor^ 
we  should  not  have  imagined  anything  had  happened  to  him.  The 
piccador  who  was  attacked  by  the  bull,  succeeaed  in  throwing  him 
off,  and  resumed  his  proper  position  in  the  arena.  Behind  the 
piccadors  came  the  four  chulos ;  behind  the  chulos,  the  banderiUeros, 
and  last  of  all  came  the  valets  of  the  circus ;  the  cachetero  alone  did 
not  form  part  of  the  cortege.  The  bull  had  retired  to  a  comer  of  the 
arena  near  the  ayuntamiento,  and  was  gazing  on  the  procession  with  a 
bewildered  stare ;  the  persons  forming  the  procession  seemed  to  occu- 
py themselves  as  little  about  the  bull  as  if  he  had  never  existed. 
They  walked  slowly  forwards  in  time  to  the  music,  till  they  came  in 
front  of  the  queen's  box,  and  then  they  grace&lly  bent  their  knee» 
The  queen  allowed  them  to  remain  sometime  in  this  position^  by  way 
of  shewing  that  she  accepted  their  homage,  and  then  made  a  signal  for 
them  to  rise;  they  did  so  immediately,  bowing  profoundly  as  they 
moved  away.  At  a  second  signal  the  procession  was  broken  up,  and 
each  returned  to  take  his  proper  part  in  the  combat.  The  piccadors 
bent  their  lances,  the  chulos  waved  their  mantles,  and  the  banderil- 
leros  ran  to  prepare  their  banderillas.  Meanwhile  the  bull,  in  order 
to  lose  no  time,  I  suppose,  employed  himself  in  wounding  a  poor 
horse,  which  we  had  believed  dead,  but  had  discovered  to  be  alive; 
he  had  lifted  the  poor  animal  from  the  ground  with  his  horns,  and  was 
walking  about  with  him  on  his  neck.  By  a  last  struggle  the  h<H!se 
erected  his  head,  and  sent  forth  a  deep  groan.  But  when  the  bull  saw 
his  enemies  return  to  the  attack,  he  shook  ofi^  the  horse  as  he  would 
have  done  a  plume  of  feathers ;  the  horse  fell ;  but,  in  a  spring  of 
agony,  raised  himself  on  his  four  feet,  and  sta|^red  forwards  towards 
the  toril  to  fall  once  again ;  the  bull  fixed  his  eye  stedfastly  on  him  as 
he  moved  away. 

The  bull  had  already  killed  three  horses^  and  wounded  two^  so  the 
alguazil  made  a  sign  to  the  piccadors  to  withdraw  themselves ;  they 
moved  to  the  extremity  of  the  circus,  opposite  the  toril,  all  three  of 
them  leaned  against  the  olivo  with  their  faces  turned  towards  the 


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F&TES   AT  MADRID.  51 

centre  of  tlie  arena.  The  ehuloa  played  with  their  cloaks^  the  bull 
began  to  move  about  again,  and  the  combat  went  on  with  as  mach 
spirit  as  before-  Three  w  four  times  the  bull  pursued  his  adversaries 
as  fiir  as  the  barrier,  thus  affording  us  the  graceful  spectacle  of  the  lieht 
movements  of  these  men,  who  appeared  actually  to  float  along  with 
their  waving  mantles.  A  banderillero  soon  entered  the  arena  with  a 
banderilia  in  each  hand ;  his  three  companions  followed  him  armed 
exactly  as  he  was.  To  drive  the  banderillas  into  the  bull's  shoulders  is 
by  no  means  an  agreeable  office ;  they  must  be  planted  precisely  at 
the  same  moment,  and  the  more  straightly  they  can  be  placed,  the 
more  easily  is  the  business  accomplished.  The  chulos  directed  the 
boll  towards  the  banderillero,  who  drove  the  two  darts  into  his  dioulders; 
firom  the  rebound  of  each  of  the  darts  a  flight  of  ^re  or  six  little  birds, 
ffoldflnches,  linnets,  and  canaries,  started  above  the  arena ;  these  un- 
mtunate  little  creatures  were  so  completely  bewildered  by  the  shock, 
as  not  to  be  immediately  able  to  fly,  and  they  fell  quite  flat  upon  the 
sand  in  the  circus ;  five  or  six  persons  leaped  in  consequence  from  the 
passage  to  pidc  them  up,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  being  gored  to  death 
by  the  bull.  But  he  was  evidently  beginning  to  lose  his  head ;  he 
seemed  to  have  abandmied  that  desperate  plan  of  attack  which  renders 
this  animal  so  formidable :  he  darted  from  one  chulo  to  another,  giving 
blows  with  his  horns  to  all,  but  allowing  himself  to  be  drawn  from  one 
enemy  to  another.  A  second  banderillero  made  his  appearance ;  the 
bull  became  suddenly  calm  on  perceiving  him,  but  this  calm  was  only 
tt  inroof  of  his  more  certain  vengeance ;  he  recognised  in  this  man's 
luuads  the  instruments  of  torture  which  he  bore  in  his  shoulders,  for 
he  sprang  upon  him  without  allowing  any  obstacle  to  oppose  him* 
The  MntoriUero  awaited  his  attack  with  the  banderillas,  but  he  could 
imly  plant  one  of  these  in  the  bull's  shoulder;  and  the  next  moment  a 
alight  scream  was  heard ;  the  rose-coloured  sleeve  of  the  banderillero 
was  instantly  stained  with  purple,  and  his  hand  was  covered  with 
blood,  which  streamed  through  his  fingers ;  the  horn  had  completely 
pierced  the  upper  part  of  his  arm.  He  reached  the  barrier  by  himself, 
tor  he  would  not  accept  any  support;  but  when  he  attempted  to 
spring  over  it  l>e  fainted  away  ;  and  we  saw  him  lifted  into  the  pas* 
saee  with  his  head  drooping,  and  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness.  One 
bull  had  done  enough  mischief,  so  the  trumpet  sounded  for  the  death. 
Each  of  the  ccnnbatants  withdrew,  for  the  lists  now  belonged  to  the 
torero.  Cuchares,  who  was  the  torero  in  this  combat,  came  forward ; 
be  appeared  to  be  between  thirty-six  and  forty  years  of  age ;  he  was  of 
ordinary  height,  thin,  with  a  shnvelled  skin  and  tawny  complexion.  If 
he  is  not  one  of  the  most  skilful  toreros,  for  I  believe  the  Spaniards  prefer 
Mont^  and  Chiclanero  to  him,  he  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  daring 
and  courageous  ;  he  performs  all  sorts  of  audacious  tricks  directly  in 
front  of  the  bull,  which  proves  that  he  has  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
this  animal's  nature.  One  day,  when  he  was  contesting  with  Montes, 
who  had  carried  oflT  the  largest  share  of  the  public  applause,  he  did 
not  know  exactly  how  to  gain  a  portion  of  the  bravos  which  were  so 
bountifially  bestowed  upon  his  rival ;  so  he  knelt  down  before  the  in- 
furiated bull.  The  bull  gased  at  him  a  few  seconds  in  astonishment, 
and  then,  as  if  intimidated  by  such  an  act  of  boldness,  abandoned  him 
and  purraed  a  chulo. 

To  return  to  the  combat  which  I  am  desoibing ;  Cuchares  came 
forward,   holding  a  sword  in  his  left  hand,    which   was  concealed 

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62  pfeXES  AT  MADRID. 

by  the  muleta,  a  piece  of  red  cloth  set  on  a  little  8tick,  which  seiTea 
as  a  shield  to  the  torero ;  he  walked  across  the  circus  till  he  came  in 
front  of  the  queen's  box,  when  he  bent  one  knee  to  the  ground,  and 
talcing  off  his  hat,  asked  permission  of  its  august  occupant  to  kill  the 
bulL  Permission  was  immediately  granted  him,  by  a  sign  and  a 
gracious  smile.  On  retiring  he  threw  his  hat  away  from  him,  with  a 
certain  gesture  of  pride,  which  belongs  only  to  a  man  who  knows  he  is 
about  to  struggle  with  death,  and  then  prepared  to  meet  the  bull. 
The  auadrille  was  now  entirely  at  his  disposal ;  it  surrounded  him, 
awaiting  his  orders ;  from  this  time  forth  nothing  is  done  without  the 
torero's  leave.  He  has  chosen  the  part  of  the  arena  upon  which  he 
desires  the  conflict  to  take  place,  the  exact  spot  upon  which  he  intends 
to  give  the  death  blow ;  the  business  of  the  whole  party,  therefore,  is  to 
attract  the  bull  towards  this  point  of  the  circus.  The  spot  choeen  on 
this  occasion  was  just  underneath  the  queen's  box,  but  the  chuloe  were 
determined  to  display  a  little  coquetry  in  directing  the  bull  thither, 
for  they  naturally  wished  to  have  their  triumph.  They  caused  the 
animal  to  make  a  complete  circuit,  obliging  him  to  pass  in  front  of  the 
ayuntamiento,  by  the  toril,  and  from  thence  to  the  spot  where  Cu- 
chares  awaited  him,  with  sword  in  one  hand,  and  muleta  in  the  other. 
In  passing  the  horse  which  he  had  lifted  on  his  head,  the  bull  gave 
him  two  or  three  more  blows  with  his  horns.  When  Cuchares  saw 
the  bull  nearly  opposite  to  him,  he  made  a  sign,  and  everybody 
moved  away ;  the  man  and  the  animal  were  now  face  to '  face. 
Cuchares  had  only  a  long  thin  sword,  and  the  animal  possessed  ter^ 
rific  horns,  enormous  power,  and  his  movements  were  more  rapid 
than  those  of  the  swiftest  horse ;  the  man  appeared  nothing  by  the 
side  of  this  tremendous  monster ;  but  the  light  of  intelligence  shone 
forth  in  the  man's  eyes,  while  the  sole  expression  in  the  bull's  look 
was  the  wild  glare  of  ferocity.  It  was  clear,  however,  that  all 
the  advantage  was  on  the  man's  side,  and  that  in  this  seemingly 
unequal  conflict,  the  strong  would  be  compelled  to  yield,  and  the  weak 
would  be  the  conqueror.  Cuchares  waved  bis  muleta  befbre  the  bull's 
eyes ;  the  bull  darted  upon  him,  but  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  re- 
ceived only  a  slight  graze  from  one  of  the  horns ;  but  the  stroke  was 
magnificently  given,  and  the  whole  circus  rang  with  applause.  The 
shouts  seemed  only  to  increase  the  bull's  fury,  for  he  sprang  again 
upon  Cuchares,  who  this  time  met  him  with  his  sword.  The  shock 
was  frightful,  the  sword  bent  like  a  hoop,  and  flew  into  the  air,  the 
point  had  touched  the  shoulder  bone,  but,  in  rebounding,  caused  the 
hilt  to  auit  the  torero's  hand.  The  spectators  would  have  hooted  Cu- 
chares, but  by  a  dexterous  volt  he  escaped  the  attack  of  his  enemy. 
The  chulos  now  advanced  and  endeavoured  to  distract  the  bull's  atten- 
tion ;  but  Cuchares,  disarmed  as  he  was,  made  a  signal  to  them  to 
remain  in  their  place,  for  he  still  had  his  muleta. 

Now  followed  the  most  astonishing  proofs  of  this  man's  profound 
knowledge  of  the  animal,  so  essential  to  him  in  a  conflict  which  lasted 
full  five  minutes,  during  which  time  his  sole  weapon  was  his  mu- 
leta. He  drove  the  bull  wherever  he  desired,  bewildering  him  so 
completely  as  almost  to  make  him  lose  his  instinct.  Twenty  times  the 
bull  sprang  upon  him,  darting  from  the  right  side  to  the  left ;  he 
grazed  him  repeatedly  with  his  horn,  but  never  really  wounded  him. 
At  length  Cuchares  picked  up  his  sword,  wiped  it  composedly,  and 
presented  it,  amidst  the  deafening  applause  of  the  spectators:  this 


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F&TES  AT  MADRID.  53 

time  Hhs  full  length  of  tbe  blade  was  buried  between  tbe  bull's  shoul- 
ders ;  he  quivered  with  agony>  and  was  completely  rooted  to  the  spot: 
it  was  very  clear  that  the  cold  of  the  steel  had  struck  into  his  heart,  if 
not  the  steel  itself, — the  hilt  of  the  sword  alone  could  be  seen  above  the 
nape  of  the  neck ;  Cuchares  did  not  occupy  himself  any  longer  with 
the  biill>  but  proceeded  to  offer  his  homage  to  the  queen.  The  bull 
was  mortally  wounded ;  he  gazed  around  him>  when  his  eye  lighted 
suddenly  upon  the  dead  horse,  and  with  a  trot  rendered  heavy  by  the 
agony  he  endured,  he  moved  towards  it.  When  the  bull  reached  the  dead 
body  of  the  hcM^e,  he  fell  upon  his  two  knees  by  the  side  of  it>  uttered  a 
faint  bellow,  lowered  his  hinderquarters  as  he  had  previously  bent  his 
head,  and  laid  himself  down.  The  cachetero  leapeo  from  the  passage, 
crept  softly  up  to  the  bull,  drew  forth  his  stiletto,  and,  when  he  had 
well  taken  his  aim,  gave  the  final  stroke..  Lightning  could  not  have. 
taken  a  more  instantaneous  effect ;  the  head  dropped  without  a  strug- 
gle, and  the  animal  expired  without  a  single  groan. 

A  strain  of  music  announced  the  death ;  a  door  opened,  and  four 
mules  drawing  a  sort  of  truck  entered  the  arena.  The  mules  were 
almost  hidden  by  their  trappings ;  these  were  covered  with  brilliant 
knots  of  ribbon  and  tinkling  bells ;  the  dead  horses  were  fastened  to 
the  truck,  one  after  the  other,  and  borne  away  with  the  rapidity  of 
lightning.  Next  came  the  bull's  turn,  and  he  soon  disappeared  like 
the  rest  through  the  door  destined  for  the  dead  bodies  to  pass  out. 
The  door  dosea  behind  him ;  four  large  streaks  of  blood  crimsoned 
the  sand,  this  was  the  blood  of  the  dead  horses  and  the  bull ;  here  and 
there,  too,  might  be  discovered  a  few  other  red  spots,  but  in  less  than 
ten  minutes  idl  traces  of  the  last  combat  had  vanished.  The  valets  of 
the  circus  brought  their  rakes  and  two  large  baskets  full  of  sand,  with 
which  they  fresh  strewed  the  arena.  The  piccadors  resumed  their 
position  on  the  left  of  the  toril,  and  the  chulos  and  banderilleros  on 
the  right.  Lucas  Blanco,  who  succeeded  Cuchares,  placed  himself  a 
little  in  the  rear.  The  band  announced  that  the  second  conflict  was 
about  to  commence ;  the  door  of  the  toril  burst  open,  and  another  bull 
made  his  appearance. 

But  it  is  really  time  that  I  should  bid  vou  adieu ;  a  bull-fight  is  a 
thing  one  never  tires  of  seeing,  and  when  1  tell  you  that  I  have  been 
eight  days  successively  to  all  the  bull-fights  which  have  taken  place  in 
Mkdnd,  you  will  readily  understand  what  an  infatuating  scene  it  is* 


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54 


THE  SIX  DECISIVE  BATTLES  OP  THE  WORLD. 

BT    PR0FB880R    CBBA6T. 

*'  Those  f«w  battles  of  which  a  contrary  event  would  hare  essentially  varied  the 
drama  of  the  world  in  all  its  subsequent  scenes.'* — Uallam. 

No.  L— MARATHON. 

**  Quibos  actus  uterque 
Europn  atque  Asin  fatis  concurrent  orbis.^ 

Two  thousand  three  hundred  and  thirty-seyen  years  ago,  a  oooneil 
of  Greek  officers  was  summoned  on  the  slope  of  one  of  the  mountains 
that  look  over  the  plain  of  Marathon^  on  the  eastern  coast  of  Attica. 
The  immediate  suDJect  of  their  meeting  was  to  consider  whether 
they  should  give  battle  to  an  enemy  that  lay  encamped  on  the  shore 
beneath  them ;  but  on  the  result  of  their  deliberations  depended, 
not  merely  the  fate  of  two  armies^  but  the  whole  future  progress  of 
human  civilization. 

The  ten  Athenian  generals  who,  with  the  Archon  entitled  the 
War-Ruler,  formed  the  council,  had  deep  matter  for  anxiety,  though 
little  aware  how  momentous  to  mankind  were  the  votes  they  were 
about  to  give,  or  how  the  generations  to  come  would  read  with 
interest  the  record  of  their  discussions.  They  saw  before  them  the 
invading  forces  of  a  mighty  power,  which  had  in  the  last  fifty 
years  shattered  and  enslaved  nearly  all  the  kingdoms  and  principali- 
ties of  the  then  known  world.  They  knew  that  all  the  resources 
of  their  own  country  were  comprised  in  the  little  army  entrusted  to 
their  guidance.  They  saw  before  them  a  chosen  host  of  the  Great 
King,  sent  to  wreak  his  special  wrath  on  that  country,  and  on  the 
other  insolent  little  Greek  community,  which  had  dared  to  aid  his 
rebels  and  burn  the  capital  of  one  of  his  provinces.  That  yictorious 
host  had  already  fulfilled  half  its  mission  of  vengeance.  Eretria,  the 
confederate  of  Athens  in  the  bold  march  against  Sardis  nine  years 
before,  had  fallen  in  the  last  few  days;  and  the  Athenians  could 
discern  from  their  heights  the  island,  in  which  the  Persians  had  de« 
posited  their  Eretrian  prisoners,  whom  they  had  reserved  to  be  led 
away  captives  into  Upper  Asia,  there  to  hear  their  doom  from  the 
lips  of  King  Darius  himself.  Moreover,  the  men  of  Athens  knew 
that  in  the  camp  before  them  was  their  own  banished  tyrant,  who 
was  seeking  to  be  reinstated  by  foreign  scymitars  in  despotic  sway 
over  any  remnant  of  his  countrymen,  3iat  might  survive  the  sack  of 
their  town,  and  might  be  left  behind  as  too  worthless  for  leading 
away  into  Median  bondage. 

The  numerical  disparity  between  the  force  which  the  Athenian 
commanders  had  under  them  and  that  which  they  were  called  on  to 
encounter,  was  hopelessly  apparent  to  some  of  the  council.  The 
historians  who  wrote  nearest  to  the  time  of  the  battle  do  not  pretend 
to  give  any  detailed  statements  of  the  numbers  engaged,  but  there 
are  sufficient  data  for  our  making  a  general  estimate.  The  muster- 
roll  of  free  Athenian  citizens  of  an  age  fit  for  military  service  never 
exceeded  30,000,  and  at  this  epoch  probably  did  not  amount  to  two- 
thirds  of  that  number.    Moreover,  the  poorer  portion  of  these  were 


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I. ^THE   BATTLE  OF   MARATHON.  55 

unprovided  with  the  eqoipments  and  ontrained  to  the  operations  of 
the  regolmr  infantry.  Some  detachments  of  the  best-armed  troops 
would  be  reqaired  to  garrison  the  city  itself,  and  mann  the  various 
fortified  poets  in  the  territory ;  so  that  it  is  impossible  to  reckon  the 
fully  equipped  force  that  marched  from  Athens  to  Marathon,  when 
the  news  of  the  Persian  landing  arrived,  at  higher  than  14,000.  The 
pliant  little  allied  stote  of  Phitsea  had  sent  ito  ccmtingent  of  1000  of 
Its  best  men ;  so  that  the  Athenian  commanders  must  have  had  under 
them  about  15,000  fully-armed  and  disciplined  infantry,  and  pro* 
bably  a  larger  number  of  irregular  light-armed  troops ;  as,  besides 
the  poorer  citizens  who  went  to  the  field  armed  with  javelins,  cut- 
laaaea,  and  targets,  each  regular  heavy-armed  soldier  was  attended 
in  the  camp  by  one  or  more  slaves,  who  were  armed  like  the  inferior 
freemen.  Cavalry  or  archers  the  Athenians  (on  this  occasion)  had 
none ;  and  the  use  in  the  field  of  military  engines  was  not  at  that 
period  introduced  into  ancient  warfare. 

Contrasted  with  their  own  scanty  forces,  the  Greek  commanders 
saw  stretched  before  them,  alon^  the  shores  of  the  winding  bay,  the 
tents  and  shipping  of  the  varied  nations  who  marched  to  do  the 
bidding  of  the  king  of  the  eastern  world.  The  difficulty  of  finding 
transports  and  of  securing  provisions  would  form  the  only  limit  to  the 
numbers  of  a  Persian  army.  Nor  is  there  any  reason  to  suppose  the 
estimate  of  Justin  exaggerated,  who  rates  at  100^000  the  force  which 
on  this  occasion  had  sailed,  under  the  Satraps  Datis  and  Artophemes, 
from  the  Cilician  shores  against  the  devoted  coasts  of  Euboea  and 
Attica.  And  after  largely  deducting  from  this  total,  so  as  to  allow 
for  mere  mariners  and  camp-followers,  there  must  still  have  remained 
fearful  odds  against  the  national  levies  of  the  Athenians.  Nor 
could  Greek  generals  then  feel  that  confidence  in  the  superior  qua- 
lity of  their  troops,  which  ever  since  the  battle  of  Marathon  has 
animated  Europeans  in  conflicts  with  Asiatics ;  as,  for  instance,  in 
the  after  struggles  between  Greece  and  Persia,  or  when  the  Roman 
legions  encountered  the  myriads  of  Mithridates  and  Tlgranes,  or  as 
is  the  case  in  the  Indian  campaigns  of  our  own  regiments.  On  the 
contrarr^  up  to  the  day  of  Marathon  the  Medes  and  Persians  were 
reputeci  invincible.  They  had  more  than  once  met  Greek  troops  in 
Asia  Minor  and  had  invariably  beaten  them.  Nothing  can  be 
stronger  than  the  expressions  used  by  the  early  Greek  writera 
respecting  the  terror  which  the  name  of  the  Medes  inspired, 
and  the  prostration  of  men's  spirits  before  the  apparently  resist- 
less career  of  the  Persian  arms.*  It  is,  therefore,  little  to  be 
wcmdered  at,  that  five  of  the  ten  Athenian  generals  shrank  from  the 
prospect  of  fighting  a  pitched  battle  against  an  enemy  so  vastly 
superior  in  numbers,  and  so  formidable  in  military  renown.  Their 
own  position  on  the  heights  was  strong,  and  offered  great  advan- 
tages to  a  small  defending  force  against  assailing  masses.  They 
deemed  it  mere  foolhardiness  to  descend  into  the  plain  to  be  trampled 
down  by  the  Asiatic  horse,  overwhelmed  with  the  archery,  or  cut  to 
pieces  by  the  invincible  veterans  of  Cambyses  and  Cyrus.  More* 
oyer,  Sparta,  the  great  war-state  of  Greece,  had  been  applied  to 

•  'a/hmmm  r^^TM  Jifir^»fr$  Iffinrm  «  Ufiit»n9  i^wmt,  mm  «•»  Jtvi^at  rmorm  Mn- 
lUfmn'  rtm  ^  h  rt^i  '£XXiir<  mm  r$  $in$/ui  ran  Bf^Mrt  ^•fin  itfv^m, — HbRGOGTUS. 

Ai  It  ymff»mt  \t^Xmfumt  kwrnvrmf  M^mrm  fir«»*  §vn0  wMm  tuu  fuymXm  Mm  fui)^i/ui 
y%»n  MmMvvXM^Mm  im  4  Ut^tn  it^x^ — Plato. 

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56  THE  SIX   DECISIVE  BATTLES   OF  THE  WORLD. 

and  had  promised  succour  to  Athens^  though  the  religious  observance 
which  the  Dorians  paid  to  certain  times  and  seasons  had  for  the 
present  delayed  their  march.  Was  it  not  wise,  at  any  rate,  to  wait 
till  the  Spartans  came  up,  and  to  have  the  help  of  the  best  troops  in 
Greece,  before  they  exposed  themselves  to  the  shock  of  the  dreaded 
Medes  ? 

Specious  as  these  reasons  might  appear,  the  other  five  generals 
were  for  speedier  and  bolder  operations.  And,  fortunately  for 
Athens  and  for  the  world,  one  of  them  was  a  man,  not  only  of  the 
highest  military  genius,  but  also  of  that  energetic  character  which 
impresses  its  own  types  and  ideas  upon  spirits  feebler  in  conception. 
Miltiades,  and  his  ancestors  before  him,  besides  being  of  one  of  the 
noblest  families  at  Athens,  had  ruled  a  large  principality  in  the 
Thracian  Chersonese ;  and  when  the  Persian  empire  extended  itself 
in  that  direction,  Miltiades  had  been  obliged,  like  many  other  small 
potentates  of  the  time,  to  acknowledge  the  authority  of  the  Great 
King,  and  to  lead  his  contingent  of  men  to  serve  in  the  Persian 
armies.  He  had,  however,  incurred  the  enmity  of  the  Persians 
during  their  Scythian  campaign  ;  his  Thracian  principality  had  been 
seized ;  and  he  himself,  in  his  flight  to  Athens,  had  narrowly  escaped 
the  hot  pursuit  of  the  Phcenidan  galleys  in  the  Persian  service, 
which  actually  took  the  vessel  in  which  part  of  his  £unily  sailed^ 
and  the  first-born  of  Miltiades  was  at  this  moment  a  captive  in  the 
court  of  King  Darius.  Practically  acquainted  with  the  organization 
o(  the  Persian  armies,  Miltiades  felt  convinced  of  the  superiority  of 
the  Greek  troops,  if  properly  handled:  he  saw  with  the  military  eye  of 
a  great  general  the  advantage  which  the  position  of  the  forces  gave 
him  for  a  sudden  attack,  and  as  a  profound  politician  he  felt  the 
perils  of  remaining  inactive,  and  of  giving  treachery  time  to  ruin 
the  Athenian  cause. 

One  officer  in  the  council  of  war  had  not  yet  voted.  This  was 
Callimachus,  the  War-Ruler.  The  votes  of  the  generals  were  five 
and  five,  so  that  the  voice  of  Callimachus  would  be  decisive.  On 
that  vote,  in  all  human  probability,  the  destiny  of  all  the  nations  of  the 
world  depended.  Miltiades  turned  to  him,  and  in  simple  soldierly 
eloquence,  which  we  probably  read  faithfully  reported  in  Herodotus, 
who  may  have  conversed  with  the  veterans  of  Marathon,  the  great 
Athenian  adjured  his  countryman  to  vote  for  giving  battle.  He 
told  him  that  it  rested  with  him  either  to  enskve  Athens,  or  to 
make  her  the  greatest  of  all  the  Greek  states,  and  to  leave  behind 
him  a  memory  of  unrivalled  glory  among  all  generations  of  mankind. 
He  warned  him  that  the  banished  tyrant  had  partisans  in  Athens ; 
and  that,  if  time  for  intrigue  was  allowed,  the  city  would  be  given 
up  to  the  Medes ;  but  that  if  the  armies  fought  at  once  before  there 
was  anything  rotten  in  the  state  of  Athens,  they  were  able,  if  the 
gods  would  give  them  fair  play,  to  beat  the  Medes.* 

The  vote  of  the  brave  War-Ruler  was  gained,  the  council  deter- 
mined to  give  battle;  and  such  was  the  ascendency  and  acknow- 
ledged military  eminence  of  Miltiades,  that  his  brother  generals  one 
and  all  gave  up  their  days  of  command  to  him,  and  cheerfully  acted 
under  his  orders.  Fearful,  however,  of  creating  any  jealousy,  and 
of  so  failing  to  obtain  the  vigorous  co-operation  of  all  parts  of  his 

fifutrift  tiot  rt  ufAtp  vt^iyttu^tu  rtf^vfi^tf, — HsBGDOTUS,  Erato,  99. 


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I. — ^THE   BATTLE   OF   MARATHOK.  67 

small  army,  Mildades  waited  till  the  day  when  the  chief  command 
would  have  come  round  to  him  in  regular  rotation,  before  he  led 
the  troops  against  the  enemy. 

The  inaction  of  the  Asiatic  commanders  during  this  interval  ap« 
pears  strange  at  first  sight ;  but  Hippias  was  with  them,  and  they 
and  he  were  aware  of  their  chance  of  a  bloodless  conquest  through 
the  machinations  of  his  partisans  among  the  Athenians.  The  nature 
of  the  ground  also  explains  in  many  points  the  tactics  of  the  oppo- 
site generals  before  the  battle,  as  well  as  the  operations  of  the  troops 
during  the  engagement. 

The  plain  of  Marathon,  which  is  about  twenty-two  miles  distant 
from  Athens,  lies  along  the  bay  of  the  same  name  on  the  north-east- 
am  coast  of  Attica.  The  plain  is  nearly  in  the  form  of  a  crescent, 
and  about  six  miles  in  length.  It  is  about  two  miles  broad  in 
the  centre,  where  the  space  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea 
is  greatest,  but  it  narrows  towards  either  extremity,  the  mountains 
coming  close  down  to  the  water  at  the  horns  of  the  bay.  There  is  a 
valley  trending  inwards  from  the  middle  of  the  plain,  and  a  ravine 
comes  down  to  it  to  the  southward.  Elsewhere  it  is  closely  girt 
round  on  the  land  side  by  rugged  limestone  mountains,  which  are 
thickly  studded  with  pines,  olive- trees,  and  cedars,  and  overgrown 
with  the  myrtle,  arbutus,  and  the  other  low  odoriferous  shrubs  that 
everywhere  perfume  the  Attic  air.  The  level  of  the  ground  is  now 
varied  by  the  mound  raised  over  those  who  fell  in  the  battle,  but  it 
was  an  unbroken  plain  when  the  Persians  encamped  on  it.  There 
are  marshes  at  each  end,  which  are  dry  in  spring  and  summer,  and 
then  offer  no  obstruction  to  the  horseman,  but  are  commonly  flooded 
with  rain  and  so  rendered  impracticable  for  cavalry  in  the  autumn, 
the  time  of  year  at  which  the  action  took  place. 

The  Oreeks,  lying  encamped  on  the  mountains,  could  watch  every 
movement  of  the  Persians  on  the  plain  below,  while  they  were  ena- 
bled completely  to  mask  their  own.  Miltiades  also  had,  from  his 
position,  the  power  of  giving  battle  whenever  he  pleased,  or  of  de- 
laying it  at  his  discretion,  unless  Datis  were  to  attempt  the  perilous 
operation  of  storming  the  heights. 

If  we  turn  to  the  map  of  3ie  old  world,  to  test  the  comparative 
territorial  resources  of  the  two  states  whose  armies  were  now  about 
to  come  into  conflict,  the  immense  preponderance  of  the  material 
power  of  the  Persian  king  over  that  of  the  Athenian  republic,  is 
more  striking  than  any  similar  contrast  which  history  can  supply. 
It  has  been,  truly  remarked,  that,  in  estimating  mere  areas,  Attica, 
containing  on  its  whole  suiface  only  700  square  miles,  shrinks  into 
insignificance  if  compared  with  many  a  baronial  fief  of  the  middle 
ages,  or  many  a  colonial  allotment  of  modem  times.  Its  antago- 
nist, the  Persian  empire,  coinprised  the  whole  of  modem  Asiatic  and 
much  of  modern  European  Turkey,  the  modern  kingdom  of  Persia, 
and  the  countries  of  modem  Georgia,  Armenia,  Balkh,  the  Punjaub, 
Afighanistan,  Beloochistan,  Egypt,  and  Tripoli. 

Sor  could  an  European,  in  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  century  be- 
fore our  era,  look  upon  this  huge  accumulation  ofpower  beneath  the 
sceptre  of  a  single  Asiatic  ruler,  with  the  indifference  with  which 
we  now  observe  on  the  map  the  extensive  dominions  of  modem  Ori- 
ental sovereigns.  For,  as  has  been  already  remarked,  before  Mara- 
thou  was  fought,  the  prestige  of  success  and  of  supposed  superiority 


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58  THE   SIX  DECISIVE   BATTLES   OF   THE  WORLD. 

of  race  wm  aa  the  aide  of  the  Asiatic  against  the  European.  Asia 
was  the  original  seat  of  human  societies,  and  long  before  any  trace 
can  be  found  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  rest  of  the  world  having 
emerged  from  the  rudest  barbarism,  we  can  perceive  that  mighty 
and  brilliant  empires  flourished  in  the  Asiatic  continent.  They  ap- 
pear before  us  through  the  twilight  of  primeval  history,  dim  and  in- 
distinct, but  massive  and  majestic,  like  mountains  in  the  early 
dawn. 

Instead,  however,  of  the  infinite  variety  and  restless  change  which 
has  characterised  the  institutions  and  fortunes  of  European  states 
ever  since  the  commencement  of  the  civilization  of  our  continent, 
a  monotonous  uniformity  pervades  the  histories  of  nearly  all  Orien- 
tal empires,  firom  the  most  ancient  down  to  the  most  receat  times. 
They  are  characterized  by  the  rapidity  of  their  early  conquests, 
by  the  immense  extent  of  the  dominions  comprised  in  them,  by 
the  establishment  of  a  satrap  or  pacha  system  of  governing  the 
provinces,  by  an  invariable  and  speedy  degeneracy  in  the  princes 
of  the  royal  house,  the  effeminate  nurslings  of  the  seragho  suc- 
ceeding to  the  warrior-sovereigns  reared  in  the  camp,  and  by  the 
internal  anarchy  and  insurrections  which  indicate  and  accelerate  the 
decline  and  fall  of  these  unwieldy  and  ill-organized  fabrics  of  power. 
It  is  also  a  striking  fact  that  the  governments  of  all  the  great  Asiatic 
empires  have  in  aU  ages  been  absolute  despotisms.  And  Heeren  is 
rignt  in  connecting  this  with  another  great  fact,  which  is  important 
from  its  influence  both  on  the  political  and  the  social  life  of  Asiatics. 
*'  Among  all  the  considerable  nations  of  Inner  Asia  the  paternal  go- 
vernment of  every  household  was  corrupted  by  polygamy :  where 
that  custom  exists,  a  good  political  constitution  is  impossible.  Fa- 
thers, being  converted  into  domestic  despots,  are  ready  to  pay  the 
same  abject  obedience  to  their  sovereign  which  they  exact  from  their 
famUv  and  dependants  in  their  domestic  economy."  We  should 
bear  m  mind  also  the  inseparable  connexion  between  the  state  reli- 
gion and  all  legislation  which  has  always  prevailed  in  the  East,  and 
the  constant  existence  of  a  powerful  sacerdotal  body,  exerdanst 
some  check,  though  precarious  and  irregular,  over  the  throne  itself 
grasping  at  all  civil  administration,  claiming  the  supreme  control 
of  education,  stereotvping  the  lines  in  which  literature  and  science 
must  move,  and  limiting  the  extent  to  which  it  shall  be  lawful  for 
the  human  mind  to  promote  its  enquiries. 

With  these  general  characteristics  rightly  felt  and  understood,  it 
becomes  a  comparatively  easy  task  to  investigate  and  appreciate  the 
origin,  progress,  and  principles  of  Oriental  empire  in  general,  as  well 
as  of  the  Persian  monarchy  in  particular.  And  we  are  thus  better 
enabled  to  appreciate  the  repulse  which  Greece  gave  to  the  arms  of 
the  East,  and  to  judge  of  the  probable  consequences  to  human 
civilization,  if  the  Persians  had  succeeded  in  bringing  Europe  under 
their  yoke,  as  they  had  already  subjugated  the  fairest  portions  of  the 
rest  of  the  then  known  world. 

The  Greeks,  from  their  geographical  position,  formed  the  natural 
vanguard  of  European  liberty  against  Persian  ambition ;  and  they  pre- 
eminently displaved  the  salient  points  of  distinctive  national  character 
which  have  rendered  European  civilisation  so  far  superior  to  Asia- 
tic. The  nations  that  dwelt  in  ancient  times  around  and  near  the 
shores  of  the  Mediterranean  sea,  were  the  first  in  our  continent  to 


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I. — THE   BATTLE  OF   MARATHON.  B9 

receive  from  the  East  the  rodimenta  of  art  and  literature,  and  the 
germs  of  social  and  political  organisations.  Of  these  nations  the 
Greeks,  through  their  vicinity  to  Asia  Minor,  Phcenida,  and  Egypt, 
were  among  the  very  foremost  in  acqahring  the  prmciples  and 
habits  of  civilised  life,  and  they  also  at  once  imparted  a  new  and 
whcdly  original  stamp  on  ail  w6ich  they  received.  Thus,  in  their 
religion  they  received  Trom  foreign  setUers  the  names  of  all  their 
deities  and  many  of  their  rites,  but  they  discarded  the  loathsome 
monstrositiea  of  the  Nile,  the  Orontes,  and  the  Ganges ;-— they  na^ 
tionalised  their  creed  ;  and  their  own  poets  created  their  beautiful 
mytholc^^.  No  sacerdotal  caste  ever  existed  in  Greece.  So,  in 
their  govenunents,  they  lived  long  under  kings,  but  never  endured 
the  establishment  of  absolute  monarchy.  Their  early  kings  were 
constitutional  rulers,  governing  with  defined  prerogatives.  And 
long  before  the  Persian  invasion  the  kingly  form  of  government  had 
given  way  in  almost  all  the  Greek  states  to  republican  institutions, 
presenting  infinite  varieties  of  the  blending  or  the  alternate  predo« 
minance  of  the  oligarchical  and  democratical  principles.  In  litera* 
tnre  and  science  the  Greek  intellect  followed  no  beaten  track,  and 
acknowledged  no  limitary  rules.  The  Greeks  thought  their  sub- 
jects boldly  out ;  and  the  novelty  of  a  speculation  invested  it  in 
their  minds  with  interest  and  not  with  criminality.  Versatile,  rest- 
less, enterprising  and  self-confident,  the  Gh*eeks  presented  the  most 
striking  contrast  to  the  habitual  quietude  and  submissiveness  of  the 
Orientals.  And,  of  all  the  Greeks,  the  Athenians  exhibited  these 
national  characteristics  in  the  strongest  degree.  This  spirit  of  activity 
and  daring,  joined  to  a  generous  sympathy  for  the  fate  of  their  fel- 
low-Greeks in  Asia,  had  led  them  to  join  in  the  last  Ionian  war ; 
and  now  mingling  with  their  abhorrence  of  an  usurping  family  of 
their  own  citizens,  which  for  a  period  had  forcibly  seized  on  and 
exercised  despotic  power  at  Athens,  nerved  them  to  defy  the  wrath 
of  King  Darius,  and  to  refuse  to  receive  back  at  his  bidding  the 
tyrant  whom  they  had  some  years  before  driven  out 

The  enterprise  and  genius  of  an  Englishman  have  lately  confirmed 
by  fresh  evidence,  and  invested  with  fresh  interest,  the  n^ight  of  the 
Persian  Monarch  who  sent  his  troops  to  combat  at  Marathon.  In- 
scriptions in  a  character  termed  the  arrow-headed,  or  cuneiform, 
had  long  been  known  to  exist  on  the  marble  monuments  at  Persepo- 
lis,  near  the  site  of  the  ancient  Susa,  and  on  the  faces  of  rocks  in 
other  places  formerly  ruled  over  by  the  early  Persian  kings.  But 
for  thousands  of  years  they  had  been  mere  unintelligible  enigmas  to 
the  curious  but  baffied  beholder ;  and  they  were  o£t^  referred  to  as 
instances  of  the  folly  of  human  pride,  which  could  indeed  write 
its  own  praises  in  the  solid  rock,  but  only  for  the  rock  to  outlive  the 
langaaee  i»  well  as  the  memory  of  the  vainglorious  inscribers.  The 
elder  Niebuhr,  Grotefend,  and  Lassen  had  made  some  guesses  at  the 
meaning  of  the  cuneiform  letters;  but  Major  Rawlinson,  of  the 
East  India  Company's  service,  after  years  of  labour,  has  at  last 
accomplished  the  glorious  achievement  of  fully  revealing  the  alpha- 
bet and  the  grammar  of  this  long  unknown  tongue.  He  has,  in  par- 
ticular, fully  decyphered  and  expounded  the  inscription  on  the 
sacred  rock  of  Behistun,  on  the  western  frontiers  of  Media.  These 
records  of  the  Achsemenidae  have  at  length  found  their  interpreter ; 
and  Darius  himself  speaks  to  us  from  the  consecrated  mountain,  and 


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60  THE   SIX   DECISIVE  BATTLES  OF  THE  WORLD. 

tells  us  the  names  of  the  nations  that  obeyed  him,  the  revolts  that  he 
suppressed,  his  victories,  his  piety>  and  his  glory.* 

Kings  who  thus  seek  the  admiration  of  posterity  are  little  likely 
to  dim  the  record  of  their  successes  by  the  mention  of  their  occa- 
sional defeats;  and  it  throws  no  suspicion  on  the  narrative  of  the 
Greek  historians,  that  we  find  these  inscriptions  silent  respecting  the 
defeat  of  Datis  and  Artaphernes,  as  well  as  respecting  the  reverses 
which  Darius  sustained  m  person  during  his  Scythian  campaigns. 
But  these  indisputable  monuments  of  Persian  fame  confirm,  and 
even  increase  the  opinion  with  which  Herodotus  inspires  us  of  the 
vast  power  which  Cvrus  founded,  Cambyses  increased ;  which  Darius 
augmented  by  Indian  and  Arabian  conquests,  and  seemed  likely, 
when  he  directed  his  arms  against  Europe,  to  make  the  predominant 
monarchy  of  the  world. 

With  the  exception  of  the  Chinese  empire,  in  which,  throughout 
all  ages  down  to  the  last  few  years,  one  third  of  the  human  race  has 
dwelt  almost  unconnected  witn  the  other  portions,  all  the  great  king- 
doms which  we  know  to  have  existed  in  ancient  Asia,  were,  in  Da* 
rius's  time,  blended  into  the  Persian.  The  Northern  Indians,  the 
Assyrians,  the  Syrians,  the  Babylonians,  the  Chaldees,  the  Phoeni- 
cians, the  nations  of  Palestine,  the  Armenians,  the  Bactrians,  the 
Lydians,  the  Phrygians,  the  Parthians,  and  the  Medes,— all  obeyed 
the  sceptre  of  the  Great  King :  the  Medes  standing  next  to  the  na- 
tive Persians  in  honour,  and  the  empire  being  frequently  spoken  of 
as  that  of  the  Medes,  or  as  that  of  the  Medes  and  Persians.  Egypt 
and  Cyrene  were  Persian  provinces;  the  Greek  colonists  in  Asia 
Minor  and  the  islands  of  the  ^gaean  were  Darius's  subjects ;  and 
their  gallant  but  unsuccessful  attempts  to  throw  off  the  Persian  yoke 
had  only  served  to  rivet  it  more  strongly,  and  to  increase  the  general 
belief  that  the  Greeks  could  not  stand  before  the  Persians  in  a  field 
of  battle.  Darius's  Scythian  war,  though  unsuccessful  in  its  imme- 
diate obiect,  had  brought  about  the  subjugation  of  Thrace,  and  the 
submission  of  Macedonia.  From  the  Indus  to  the  Peneus,  all  was 
his.  Greece  was  to  be  his  next  acquisition.  His  heralds  were  sent 
round  to  the  various  Greek  states  to  demand  the  emblem  of  homage^ 
which  all  ihe  islanders  and  many  of  the  dwellers  on  the  continent 
submitted  to  give. 

Over  those  who  had  the  apparent  rashness  to  refuse,  the  Persian 
authority  was  to  be  now  enforced  by  the  army  that,  under  Datis,  an 
experienced  Median  general,  and  Artaphernes^  a  young  Persian  no- 
ble, lay  encamped  by  the  coast  of  Marathon. 

When  Miltiades  arrayed  his  men  for  action,  he  staked  on  the  ar- 
bitrament of  one  battle  not  only  the  fate  of  Athens,  but  that  of  all 
Greece ;  for  if  Athens  had  fallen,  no  other  Greek  state  except  Lace- 
dsemon  would  have  had  the  courage  to  resist ;  and  the  Lacedaemo- 
nians, though  they  would  probably  have  died  in  their  ranks  to  the 
last  man,  never  could  have  successfully  resisted  the  victorious  Per- 
sians and  the  numerous  Greek  troops  which  would  have  soon  marched 
under  the  Persian  banner^  had  it  prevailed  over  Atjiens. 

Nor  was  there  any  power  to  the  westward  of  Greece  that  could 
have  offered  an  effectual  opposition  to  Persia,  had  she  once  conquer- 
ed Greece,  and  made  that  country  a  basis  for  future  military  opera- 

*  See  the  last  numbers  of  the  Journal  of  the  Royal  Asiatic  Society. 

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I THE  BATTLE   OP   MARATHON.  61 

tkms.  Rome  was  at  this  time  in  her  season  of  utmost  weakness* 
Her  dynasty  of  powerful  Etruscan  kings  had  been  driven  out^ 
and  her  infant  commonwealth  was  reeling  under  the  attacks  of  the 
Etmscans  and  Volscians  from  without^  and  the  fierce  dissensions 
between  the  patricians  and  plebeians  within.  Etruria,  with  her 
Lacumoe  and  serfs  was  no  match  for  Persia.  Samnium  had  not 
grown  into  the  mifi^ht  which  she  afterwards  put  forth :  nor  could  the 
Greek  colonies  in  South  Italy  and  Sicily  hope  to  conquer  when  their 
parent  states  had  perished.  Carthage  had  escaped  the  Persian  yoke 
in  the  time  of  Cambyses  through  the  reluctance  of  the  Phoenician 
mariners  to  serve  against  their  kinsmen.  But  such  forbearance  could 
not  long  have  been  relied  on^  and  the  future  rival  of  Rome  would 
have  become  as  submissive  a  minister  of  the  Persian  power  as  were 
the  Phoenician  cities  themselves.  If  we  turn  to  Spain,  or  if  we  pass 
the  great  mountain  chain,  which^  prolonged  through  the  Pyrenees^ 
the  Cevennesy  the  Alps,  and  the  Balkan^  divides  Northern  from 
Southern  Europe,  we  shall  find  nothing  at  that  period  but  mere 
savage  Finns,  Celts,  and  Teutons.  Had  Persia  beat  Athens  at 
Marathon,  she  could  have  found  no  obstacle  to  Darius,  the  chosen 
aervaot  of  Ormuzd,  advancing  his  sway  over  all  the  known  Western 
races  of  mankind.  The  infant  energies  of  Europe  would  have  been 
trodden  out  beneath  the  hoof  of  universal  conquest ;  and  the  history 
of  the  world,  like  the  history  of  Asia,  have  baeome  a  mere  record  of 
the  rise  and  fall  of  despotic  dynasties,  of  the  incursions  of  barbarous 
hordes^  and  of  the  mental  and  political  prostration  of  millions  be- 
neath the  diadem,  the  tiara,  and  the  sword. 

Great  as  the  preponderance  of  the  Persian  over  the  Athenian 
power  at  that  crisis  seems  to  have  been,  it  would  be  unjust  to  im- 
pute wild  rashness  to  the  policy  of  Miltiades,  and  those  who  voted 
with  him  in  the  Athenian  council  of  war,  or  to  look  on  the  afler- 
current  of  events  as  the  mere  fortunate  result  of  successful  folly. 
As  before  has  been  remarked,  Miltiades,  whilst  prince  of  the  Cherso- 
nese, bad  seen  service  in  the  Persian  armies ;  and  he  knew  by  per- 
sonal observation  how  many  elements  of  weakness  lurked  beneath 
their  imposing  aspect  of  strength.  He  knew  that  the  bulk  of  their 
troops  no  longer  consisted  of  the  hardy  shepherds  and  mountaineers 
from  Persia  Proper  and  Kurdistan,  who  won  Cyrus's  battles ;  but 
that  unwilling  contingents  from  conquered  nations  now  filled  up  the 
Persian  muster-rolls,  fighting  more  from  compulsion  than  from  any 
xeal  in  the  cause  of  their  masters.  He  had  also  the  sagacity  and  the 
spirit  to  appreciate  the  superiority  of  the  Greek  armour  and  organ- 
ization over  the  Asiatic,  notwithstanding  former  reverses.  Above 
M,  be  felt  and  worthily  trusted  the  enthusiasm  of  those  whom  he 
led.  The  Athenians  under  him  were  republicans  who  had  but  a 
few  years  before  shaken  ofi^  their  tyrants.  They  were  Hushed  by  re- 
cent successes  in  wars  against  some  of  the  neighbouring  states.  They 
knew  that  the  despot  whom  they  had  driven  out  was  in  the  foemen*s 
camp,  seeking  to  be  reinstated  by  foreign  arms  in  his  plenitude  of 
oppression.  They  were  zealous  champions  of  the  liberty  and  equality 
which  as  citizens  they  had  recently  acquired.  And  Miltiades  might 
be  sure,  that  whatever  treachery  might  lurk  among  some  of  the 
higher-born  and  wealthier  Athenians,  the  rank  and  file  whom  he  led 
were  ready  to  do  their  utmost  in  his  and  their  own  cause.  As  for 
future  attacks  from  Asia,  he  might  reasonably  hope  that  one  victory 


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62  THE   SIX   DECISIVE   BATTLES   OP  THE  WORLD. 

would  inspirit  all  Greece  to  combine  against  the  common  foe ;  and 
that  the  latent  seeds  of  revolt  and  disunion  in  the  Persian  empire 
would  soon  burst  forth  and  paralyze  its  energies,  so  as  to  leave 
Greek  independence  secure. 

With  these  hopes  and  risks,  Miltiades,  on  a  September  day,  490 
B.  c,  gave  the  word  for  the  Athenian  army  to  prepare  for  battle. 
There  were  many  local  associations  connected  with  those  mountain 
heights,  which  were  calculated  powerfully  to  excite  the  spirits  of  the 
men,  and  of  which  the  commanders  well  knew  how  to  avail  them- 
selves in  their  exhortations  to  their  troops  before  the  encounter. 
Marathon  itself  was  a  region  sacred  to  Hercules.  Close  to  them  was 
the  fountain  of  Macaria,  who  had  in  days  of  yore  devoted  herself  to 
death  for  the  liberty  of  her  people.  The  very  plain  on  which  they 
were  to  fight  was  the  scene  of  the  exploits  of  their  national  hero, 
Theseus ;  and  there,  too,  as  old  legends  told,  the  Athenians  and  the 
Heraclidee  had  routed  the  invader,  Eurystheus.  These  traditions 
were  not  mere  cloudy  myths,  or  idle  fictions,  but  matters  of  implicit 
earnest  faith  to  the  men  of  that  day,  and  many  a  fervent  prayer 
arose  from  the  Athenian  ranks  to  the  heroic  spirits  who  while  on 
earth  had  striven  and  suffered  on  that  very  spot,  and  who  were  be- 
lieved to  be  now  heavenly  powers,  looking  down  with  interest  on, 
and  capable  of  interposing  vrith  effect  in  the  fortunes  of  their  still 
beloved  country.         • 

According  to  old  national  custom  the  warriors  of  each  tribe  were 
arrayed  together;  neighbour  thus  fighting  by  the  side  of  neighbour, 
friend  by  friend,  and  the  spirit  of  emulation  and  the  consciousness  of 
responsibility  excited  to  the  verjr  utmost.  The  War-Rolei*,  Calli- 
machus,  had  the  leading  of  the  right  wing ;  the  Plataeans  formed  the 
extreme  left ;  and  Themistocles  and  Aristides  commanded  the  cen* 
tre.  The  panoply  of  the  regular  infantry  consisted  of  a  long  spear, 
of  a  shield,  helmet,  breast-plate,  greaves,  and  shortsword.  Thus 
equipped,  the  troops  usually  advanced  slowly  and  steadily  into  action 
in  an  uniform  phalanx  of  about  four  spears  deep.  But  the  military 
genius  of  Miltiades  led  him  to  deviate  on  this  occasion  from  the  com- 
mon-place tactics  of  his  countrymen.  It  was  essential  for  him  to 
extend  his  line  so  as  to  cover  all  the  practicable  ground,  and  to  se- 
cure himself  from  being  outflanked  and  charged  m  the  rear  by  the 
Persian  horse.  This  extension  involved  the  weakening  of  his  line. 
Instead  of  an  uniform  reduction  of  its  strength,  he  determined  on 
detaching  principally  from  his  centre,  which,  from  the  nature  of  the 
ground,  would  have  the  best  opportunities  for  rallying,  if  broken, 
and  on  strengthening  his  wings  so  as  to  insure  advantage  at  those 
points ;  and  he  trusted  to  his  own  skill,  and  to  his  soldiers'  disci- 

ftline,  for  the  improvement  of  that  advantage  into  decisive  victory, 
n  this  order,  and  availing  himself  probably  of  the  inequalities  of  the 
ground  so  as  to  conceal  his  preparations  from  the  enemy  till  the  last 
possible  moment,  Miltiades  drew  up  the  fifteen  thousand  infantry 
whose  spears  were  to  decide  this  crisis  in  the  struggle  between  the 
European  and  the  Asiatic  worlds.  The  sacrifices,  by  which  the  fa- 
vour of  heaven  was  sought,  and  its  will  consulted,  were  announced 
to  shew  propitious  omens.  The  trumpet  sounded  for  action,  and, 
chanting  the  hymn  of  battle,  the  little  army  bore  down  upon  the 
host  of  the  foe.  Then,  too,  along  the  mountain  slopes  of  Marathon 
must  have  resounded  the  mutual  exhortation,  which  ^schylus,  who 


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I. — ^THE  BATTLE  OP   MABATHON.  63 

fought  m  both  battles,  teUs  us  was  afterwards  heard  over  the  waves  of 
Salaimis, — *'  On,  sons  of  the  Greeks !  Strike  for  the  freedom  of  your 
oountry, — strike  for  the  freedom  of  your  children,  your  wives, — for 
the  dirines  of  your  fathers'  eods,  and  for  the  sepulchres  of  your 
aires.     All— 4JI  are  now  staked  upon  the  strife." 

Q  Tcat^t^  EWtjvtav,  irc 
EXcvOepovre  warpiS',  ektvdipovre  5c 
Ilaidug,  yvraiKaQ,  Qewy  re  varpiimv  6^17, 
Giycac  TB  Tpoyoytay.     Nwy  wep  vayrwy  aywv.* 

Instead  of  advancing  at  the  usual  slow  pace  of  the  phalanx,  Mil- 
tiades  brought  his  men  on  at  a  run.  They  were  all  trained  in  the 
exercises  of  the  palsestra,  so  that  there  was  no  fear  of  their  ending 
the  charge  in  breathless  exhaustion ;  and  it  was  of  the  deepest  im- 
portance for  him  to  traverse  as  rapidly  as  possible  the  mile  or  so  of 
level  ground  that  lay  between  the  mountain  foot  and  the  Persian 
outposts,  and  so  to  get  his  trpops  into  close  action  before  the  Asiatic 
cavalry  could  mount,  form,  and  manoeuvre  against  him,  or  their 
archers  keep  him  long  under  fire,  and  before  me  enemy's  generals 
could  fairly  deploy  their  masses. 

•'  When  the  Fersians,"  says  Herodotus,  *'  saw  the  Athenians  run- 
ning down  on  them,  without  horse  or  bowmen,  and  scanty  in  num« 
bers,  they  thought  them  a  set  of  madmen  rushing  upon  certain  de- 
struction." Thev  began,  however,  to  prepare  to  receive  them,  and 
the  Eastern  chiefs  arrayed,  as  quickly  as  time  and  place  allowed,  the 
varied  races  who  served  in  their  motley  ranks.  Mountaineers  from 
Hyrcania  and  Afghanistan,  wild  horsemen  from  the  steppes  of 
Khorassan,  the  black  archers  of  Ethiopia,  swordsmen  from  the 
banks  of  the  Indus,  the  Oxus,  the  Euphrates,  and  the  Nile,  made 
read^  against  the  enemies  of  the  Great  King.  But  no  national  cause 
inspired  them,  except  the  division  of  native  Persians ;  and  in  the 
large  host  there  was  no  uniformity  of  language,  creed,  race,  or  mili-t 
tary  system.  Still,  among  them  there  were  many  gallant  men, 
under  a  veteran  general ;  they  were  familiarized  with  victory,  and 
lo  contemptuous  confidence  their  infantry,  which  alone  had  time 
to  form,  awaited  the  Athenian  charge.  On  came  the  Greeks,  with 
one  unwavering  line  of  levelled  spears,  against  which  the  light 
armour,  the  short  lances  and  sabres  of  the  Orientals  offered  weak 
defence.  Their  front  rank  must  have  gone  down  to  a  roan  at  the 
first  shock.  Still  they  recoiled  not,  but  strove  by  individual  gal- 
lantry, and  by  the  weight  of  numbers,  to  make  up  for  the  dis- 
advantages of  weapons  and  tactics,  and  to  bear  back  the  shallow 
line  of  me  Europeans.  In  the  centre^  where  the  native  Persians  and 
the  Sacse  fought,  they  succeeded  in  breaking  through  the  weakened 
part  of  the  Athenian  phalanx ;  and  the  tribes  led  by  Aristides  and 
Themistocles  were,  after  a  brave  resistance,  driven  back  over  the 
plain,  and  chased  by  the  Persians  up  the  valley  towards  the  in- 
ner country.  There  the  nature  of  the  ground  gave  the  opportunity 
of  rallying  and  renewing  the  struggle :  and,  meanwhile,  the  Greek 
wings,  where  Miltiades  had  concentrated  his  chief  strength,  had  rout* 
ed  the  Asiatics  opposed  to  them,  and  the  Athenian  officers,  instead 
of  pursuing  the  fugitives,  kept  their  troops  well  in  hand,  and  wheel- 

•  PersaB. 


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64  THE   SIX   DECISIVE   BATTLES   OE   THE  WORLD. 

ing  round,  assailetl  on  each  flank  the  hitherto  victorious  Persian  cen- 
tre. Aristides  and  Theniistocles  charged  it  again  in  front  with  their 
re-organized  troops.  The  Persians  strove  hard  to  keep  their  ground. 
Evening  came  on,  and  the  rays  of  the  setting-sun  darted  full  into  the 
eyes  of  the  Asiatic  comhatants,  while  the  Greeks  fought  with  in- 
creasing advantage  with  the  light  at  their  backs.  At  last  the  hither- 
to unvanquished  lords  of  Asia  broke  and  fled,  and  the  Greeks  fol- 
lowed, striking  them  down,  to  the  water's  edge,  where  the  invaders 
were  now  hastily  launching  their  galleys,  and  seeking  to  re-embark 
and  fly.  Flushed  with  success,  the  Athenians  attacked  and  strove 
to  fire  the  fleet  But  here  the  Asiatics  resisted  desperately,  and  the 
principal  loss  sustained  by  the  Greeks  was  in  the  assault  on  the  ships. 
Here  fell  the  brave  War-Ruler  Callimachus,  the  general  Stesilaus, 
and  other  Athenians  of  note.  Seven  galleys  were  fired ;  but  the  Per- 
sians succeeded  in  saving  the  rest  They  pushed  off*  from  the  fatal 
shore ;  but  even  here  the  skill  of  Datis  did  not  desert  him,  and  he 
sailed  round  to  the  western  coast  of  Attica,  in  hopes  to  find  the  city 
unprotected,  and  to  gain  possession  of  it  from  some  of  Hippias'  par- 
tizans.  Miltiades,  however,  saw  and  counteracted  his  manoeuvre. 
Leaving  Aristides,  and  the  troops  of  his  tribe,  to  guard  the  spoil  and 
the  slain,  the  Athenian  commander  led  his  conquering  army  by  a 
rapid  night-march  back  across  the  country  to  Athens.  And  when 
the  Persian  fleet  had  doubled  the  Cape  of  Sunium  and  sailed  up  to 
the  Athenian  harbour  in  the  morning,  Datis  saw  arrayed  on  the 
heights  above  the  city  the  troops  before  whom  his  men  had  fled  on 
the  preceding  evening.  All  hope  of  further  conauest  in  Europe  for 
the  time  was  abandoned,  and  the  baffled  armada  returned  to .  the 
Asiatic  coasts. 

It  was  not  by  one  defeat,  however  signal,  that  the  pride  of  Persia 
could  be  broken,  and  her  dreams  of  universal  empire  dispelled. 
Ten  years  afterwards  she  renewed  her  attempts  upon  Europe  on  a 
grander  scale  of  enterprise,  and  was  repulsed  by  Greece  with  greater 
and  reiterated  loss.  Larger  forces  and  heavier  slaughter,  than  had 
been  seen  at  Marathon,  signalised  the  conflicts  of  Greeks  and  Per- 
sians at  Artemisium,  Salamis,  Platsea,  and  the  Eurymedon,  and  the 
after  triumphs  of  the  Macedonian  King  at  the  Granicus,  at  Issus,  and 
Arbela.  But  mighty  and  momentous  as  these  battles  were,  they 
rank  not  with  Marathon  in  importance.  They  originated  no  new 
impulse.  They  turned  back  no  current  of  fate.  They  were  merely 
confirmatory  of  the  already  existing  bias  which  Marathon  had 
created.  The  day  of  Marathon  is  the  critical  epoch  in  the  history 
of  the  two  nations.  It  broke  for  ever  the  spell  of  Persian  invinci- 
bility, which  had  previously  paralyzed  men's  minds.  It  generated 
among  the  Greeks  the  spirit  which  beat  back  Xerxes,  and  after-' 
wards  led  on  Xenophon,  Agesilaus,  and  Alexander,  in  terrible  reta- 
liation through  their  Asiatic  campaigns.  It  secured  for  mankind 
the  intellectual  treasures  of  Athens,  the  growth  of  free  institutions, 
the  liberal  enlightenment  of  the  western  world,  and  the  gradual 
ascendancy  for  many  ages  of  the  great  principles  of  European  civi- 
lization. 


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65 


VISIT    TO    HIS   HIGHNESS    RAJAH   BROOKE, 
AT  SARAWAK. 

BY    PSTBB    M^QUHAB, 
CAPTAIV  OF   HER   MAJEtTT*8  SHIP   DADALU8. 

WITH  AN    BN6BAVIKO  OF  THfi   BUNGALOW  OP  THE   RAJAH. 

On  the  18th  July,  1845,  H.M.  squadron,  consisting  of  one  line^of- 
battle  ship,  two  frigates,  three  brigs,  and  one  steamer,  under  the  com- 
mand of  Admiral  Sir  Thomas  Cochrane,  got  under  weigh,  formed  order 
of  sailing  in  two  columns,  and  proceeded  to  beat  down  the  Straits  of 
Malacca.  After  several  days'  sailing,  a  fierce  Sumatra  squall  was 
encountered,  which  brought  the  squadron  in  two  compact  lines  to 
an  anchor  off  the  Buffalo  rocks  in  very  deep  water.  Some  cause 
prevented  the  commander-in-chief  from  approaching  nearer  to  the 
town  of  Singapore.  Supplies  of  bread  and  water  having  been  brought 
out  by  an  iron  steamer,  the  Pluto, — Mr.  Brooke,  Rajah  of  Sarawak, 
and  Capt.  Bethune,  the  commissioners  for  the  affairs  of  Borneo,  hav- 
ing embarked  in  the  flag-ship,  a  brig  of  war  detached  to  New  Zealand 
—once  more  the  order  of  sailing  was  formed,  and  the  force  proceeded 
down  the  straits  of  Singapore  en  route  for  Borneo. 

That  immense,  unexplored,  and  little-known  island  has,  since  the 
occupation  of  Singapore  by  the  British,  as  a  natural  consequence  be- 
€X>me  of  daily  increasing  importance,  and  the  settlement  on  that  fine 
and  navigable  river,  the  Sarawak,  under  the  rajahship  of  Mr.  Brooke, 
'  bids  fieur  to  produce  results,  which,  even  in  his  most  sanguine  mo- 
ments, he  could  scarcely  have  anticipated. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  speak  of  this  gentleman  in  terms  of  suffi- 
cient force  to  convey  an  idea  of  what  has  already  been  accomplished 
by  his  talents,  courage,  perseverance,  judgment,  and  integrity.  It 
required  moral  courage  of  a  high  order,  in  the  face  of  difficulties  to 
the  minds  of  most  men  insurmountable,  to  bring  the  wild,  piratical, 
and  treacherous  Malay,  and  the  still  more  savage  race,  the  Dyak 
tribes,  not  only  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  reason,  but  to  become  amen- 
able to  its  laws  under  his  government  His  perseverance  was  great 
under  trials,  disappointments,  and  provocations  of  a  nature  to  damp 
the  energy  of  the  most  enthusiastic  philanthropist  that  ever  under- 
took to  ameliorate  the  condition  of  his  fellow  man.  His  judgment 
has  been  rarely  excelled  in  discovering  the  secret  motives  of  the  differ- 
ent chiefs  with  whom  his  innumerable  negotiations  had  to  be  conduct- 
ed ;  and  in  an  extraordinary  degree  he  possessed  the  power  of  discri- 
minating between  the  wish  to  be  honest  and  that  to  deceive,  betray, 
and  plunder.  He  evinced  the  most  unimpeachable  integrity,  the 
most  rigid  justice  in  protecting  the  poor  man  from  the  tyranny  and 
exactions  of  the  more  powerful  chief;  and  he  showed  his  little 
kingdom  that  the  administration  of  law  was  as  inflexible  in  its  oper- 
ation towards  the  great  men  of  the  country  as  towards  the  more 
bumble  of  his  subjects ; — and  all  this  he  carried  into  effect  by  mild- 
ness of  manner  and  gentleness  of  rule. 

VOL.   XXIII.  ^ 


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66  VISIT  TO  SARAWAK. 

Me  has  gained  the  love  and  affection  of  many  •  he  has  incurred  the 
hatred  of  some,  and  it  hourly  exposed  to  the  sanguinary  vengeance 
of  the  leaders,  whose  riches  were  gathered  amidst  murder  and  plun- 
der from  the  unfortunate  crew  of  some  betrayed  or  shipwrecked  ves- 
sel, and  who  have  foresight  sufficient  to  perceive  that  if  settlemenU 
similar  to  that  on  the  Sarawak  should  be  extended  along  the  north- 
west coast  of  the  island,  their  bloody  occupation  is  gone.  They 
therefore  endeavour  to  hinder,  as  far  as  in  them  lies,  the  good  which 
is  flowing  from  the  noble  and  brilliant  example  of  his  highness  the 
rajah  of  Sarawak,  of  whom  Great  Britain  has  reason  to  be  proud. 
It  is  for  the  British  government  to  afford  that  countenance  and 
protection  which  shall  be  necessary  to  prevent  the  interference  of 
others,  who  from  jealousy  may  wish  by  intrigues  to  interrupt,  if  not 
to  destroy  the  great  moral  lesson  now  first  exhibited  amongst  these 
wild  people,  and  in  regions  hitherto  shrouded  in  the  darkest  clouds 
of  heathenism  and  barbarity,  amongst  a  |>eopIe  by  whom  piracy, 
murder,  and  plunder  are  not  considered  as  crimes,  but  as  the  common 
acts  of  a  profession  which  their  forefathers  followed,  which  they  have 
been  taught  to  look  upon  from  their  earliest  days  as  the  only  true 
occupation,  in  which  they  may  rise  according  to  the  number  and 
atrocity  of  their  cruelties. 

'  Not  long  since  several  wretches  were  convicted  at  Singapore, 
on  the  clearest  evidence,  and  condemned  to  death  for  deeds  of  the 
most  revolting  and  sanguinary  barbarity.  At  the  foot  of  the  gallows 
rather  a  fine-looking  young  man,  a  Malay,  justified  himself  on  the 
principles  above  stated,  and  died  declaring  himself  an  innocent  and 
very  ill-used  man,  since  all  he  had  done  was  in  the  regular  way  of 
his  business.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  then,  that,  entertaining 
such  doctrines  and  sentiments,  the  whole  Malay  population  of  the. 
great  and  numerous  islands  of  the  East,  have  been  regarded  by  the 
European  commercial  world  and  navigators  in  these  seas  as  a  race 
of  treacherous  and  blood-thirsty  miscreants.  How  admirable,  then, 
in  our  countryman  to  have  commenced  the  good  work  of  regeneration 
amongst  many  millions  of  such  men,  not  by  the  power  of  the  sword, 
but  by  demonstrating  practically  the  eternal  and  immutable  rules  of 
equity  and  truth ! 

On  the  arrival  of  the  squadron  off  the  Sarawak,  a  party  accompanied 
the  admiral  in  the  Pluto  to  the  house  and  establishment  of  Mr.  Brooke 
at  Kutching,  about  eighteen  miles  above  the  mouth  of  the  river. 
The  house,  although  not  large,  is  airy  and  commodious  for  the 
climate,  and  stands  on  the  lefi  bank  of  the  river  on  undulating 
ground  of  the  richest  quality,  capable  of  producing  in  abundance 
every  article  common  to  the  tropics ;  clearance  was  progressing  on 
both  sides  of  the  river,  and  will  doubtless  rapidly  increase  when  the 
perfect  security  of  property  which  exists  is  more  generally  under- 
stood and  appreciated.  Some  years  ago  a  small  colony  of  indus- 
trious Chinese  located  themselves  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  under 
the  protection  of  the  rajah  of  the  day :  their  little  settlement  became 
flourishing  and  prosperous,  and  was  rapidly  increasing  in  wealth 
and  importance,  when  at  one  fell  swoop  the  villanous  Malays  seized, 
plundered,  and  murdered  them;  and  the  more  fortunate  Chinese 
who  escaped  home  spread  tlie  report  of  their  treatment  so  widely. 


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VISIT  TO    SARAWAK.  67 

that  it  will  take  some  time  to  remove  the  impression.  But  I  feel 
convinced  that  emigration  from  China  under  British  protection 
might  be  carried  to  any  extent^  and  a  race  truly  agricultural  and 
industrious  introduced,  to  the  great  benefit  of  Uiis  rich  but  neg- 
lected portion  of  the  world.  It  may  be  mentioned  as  a  singular  fact, 
that  on  no  part  of  this  coast  was  the  cocoa-nut,  that  invariable  type 
of  a  tropical  region,  found,  having  been  gradually  destroyed  by 
pirates,  until  introduced  by  Mr.  Brooke,  who  has  used  every  exertion 
Co  extend  the  planting  of  trees,  by  having  the  seedlings  brought  in 
great  quantities  from  Singapore ;  and  by  convincing  his  people  that 
every  tree,  at  the  end  of  a  few  years,  is  worth  a  dollar  from  the  oil  it 
will  produce,  which  meets  a  ready  sale  at  all  times,  many  thousands 
have  already  been  planted,  and  the  number  is  increasing.  It  is  by 
such  small  beginnings  that  the  minds  of  these  people  must  be  dis- 
tracted from  the  thoughts  of  robbery  and  plunder;  and  it  is  by  prac- 
tically shewing  them  that  dollars  are  to  be  had  without  the  shedding 
of  blood,  that  the  rajah  of  Saikwak  is  endeavouring  to  sow  the  seeds 
of  industry  and  of  civilization,  and  step  by  step  to  change  their 
ideas,  their  habits,  their  hearts.  That  an  all-wise  Providence  may 
prosper  his  undertaking,  must  be  the  prayer  of  those  who  may  have 
visited  his  settlement,  and  who,  like  myself,  have  witnessed  his  disin- 
terested and  unceasing  thoughts  for  the  peace,  happiness,  and  comfort 
of  the  community  of  which  he  may  truly  be  designated  the  "father." 

The  town  of  Kutching  stands  on  both  sides  of  the  river,  here  about 
200  yards  across ;  the  houses  are  of  very  slight  construction,  with 
open  bamboo  floors  and  mat  partitions,  best  adapted  for  the  climate, 
although  those  occupied  by  the  Europeans  are  of  a  better  description, 
— still  of  the  same  material — all  raised  some  feet  from  the  ground  to 
adroit  a  free  circulation  of  air  from  underneath. 

The  night  passed  by  the  admiral  and  party  was  rendered  very  agree- 
able by  cool  refreshing  breezes  from  some  high,  insulated,  granitic 
mountains  at  a  distance  in  the  interior ;  and  even  during  the  day  the 
heat  was  not  unbearable :  thermometer  Fahr.  about  86^  The  canoes 
00  the  river  are  of  the  slightest  construction,  and  are  apparently 
unsafe ;  yet  the  passengers  crossing  the  creeks  and  the  river  invaria- 
bly stand  up  in  them,  —but  woe  to  the  unpractised  or  unsteady  I  Ac- 
cidents, although  rare,  do  sometimes  occur,  attended  with  loss  of  life. 

Mr.  Brooke  had  been  absent  some  six  or  seven  weeks  when  the 
admiral  accompanied  him  on  his  return  to  the  settlement.  He  was 
not  expected,  but  the  news  of  his  arrival  spread  with  wonderful  ve- 
locity, and  the  various  chiefs  were  speedily  assembled  to  greet  him 
with  a  cordial  and  hearty  welcome.  The  reunion  of  the  oldest  of  his 
swarthy  counsellors,  as  well  as  of  the  youngest,  who  dropped  in  after 
dinner  had  been  removed,  and  took  their  places  on  the  benches  by  the 
sides  of  the  walls,  according  to  their  modes,  customs,  and  privileges, 
together  with  the  naval  oflBcers  and  European  civilians,  with  the 
rajah  in  his  chair,  and  two  of  his  most  worthy  native  friends,  entitled 
by  birth  to  the  distinction,  seated  beside  him,  presented  a  picture  not 
destitute  of  interest,  certainly  of  great  variety;  for  some  of  the 
Dyaks,  with  round  heads,  high  cheek  bones,  and  large  jaws,  remark- 
ably differing  from  the  Malay  race,  were  there  to  complete  the  back- 
ground. All  were  most  attentively  listening  to  the  conversation  of  the 
rajah  with    his  Malay  neighbours,  enjoying  a  cheroot  occasionally 

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68  visrr  to  Sarawak. 

given  to  them  by  the  vieitors^  and  quietly  making  their  own  observa- 
tions. Mr.  Williamson^  the  interpreter,  a  native  of  Malacca,  who 
speaks  the  language  as  a  Malay,  had  another  group  around  him, 
eagerly  putting  questions  on  the  various  little  subjects  interesting  to 
themselves ;  and  without  the  least  approach  to  obtrusive  familiarity, 
the  evening  was  passed,  I  dare  say,  very  much  to  the  satisfaction  of 
all  parties. 

The  principal  exports,  at  this  period,  consist  of  antimony  ore,  of 
great  richness,  producing  75  per  cent,  of  pure  metal.  It  is  found  in 
great  quantities,  at  a  distance  of  ten  miles  up,  in  the  river  and  by 
excavations  from  the  base  of  some  hills,  in  the  manner  of  washing 
the  mines.  It  is  brought  down  the  river  by  the  natives,  carried  into 
a  wharf,  where  it  is  accurately  weighed,  and  then  shipped  for  Singa- 
pore, bv  the  rajah,  who  pays  for  the  whole  brought  from  the  mines 
a  stipulated  price  per  picue  to  the  chiefs,  who  pay  the  labourers, 
boatmen,  and  all  other  expenses.  In  former  days,  his  highness  the 
rajah  took  the  lion's  share ;  but  the  arrangements  of  Mr.  Brooke  are 
on  the  most  liberal  scale,  his  first  and  only  object  being  to  encourage 
industry,  and  to  shew  how  greatly  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  all 
are  promoted  by  a  rigid  and  just  appreciation  of  the  rights  of  property, 
and  by  a  fiiithful  and  honourable  adherence  to  every  agreement  and 
bargain.  The  result  has  been  a  vast  increase  in  the  quantity  of  ore 
exported,  and  an  extending  desire  to  be  interested  in  the  business. 

A  passing  visit  does  not  enable  one  to  speak  geologically  of  a  coun- 
try ;  and  as  there  is  a  gentleman  of  practical  science  at  present  mak- 
ing his  observations,  it  would  be  presumptuous  in  me  to  offer  a  remark 
on  the  formations  of  this  great  country.  But  a  single  glance  at  the 
beautifully  undulating  hills,  at  the  gorgeous  verdure,  and  growth  of 
every  branch  of  the  vegetable  kingdom,  at  once  points  out  the  inex- 
haustible capabilities  of  the  soil  for  the  cultivation  of  sugar,  coffee, 
spices,  and  every  firuit  of  the  tropics,  many  of  which  already  flourish 
as  specimens  in  the  rajah's  garden  and  grounds,  and  invite  the  indus- 
trious to  avail  themselves  of  such  a  country  and  of  such  a  river,  and 
become  proprietors  on  the  banks  of  the  Saiilwak.  Britbh  capital  and 
protection  and  Chinese  Coolies,  would  very  soon  change  the  north  and 
north-west  coast  of  Borneo  into  one  of  the  richest  countries  in  the 
world. 

The  admiral  proceeded  in  the  morning  some  short  distance  up  the 
river  to  return  the  visit  of  the  chiefs,  and  was  every  where  received 
with  the  royal  salute  of  three  guns;  the  whole  party,  accompanied  by 
the  rajah  and  Mr.  Williamson,  the  interpreter,  at  eleven  a.  m.  re- 
embarked  on  board  the  Pluto,  which  had  been  in  a  very  hazardous 
situation  during  the  night,  having  unfortunately  grounded  on  a  ledge 
of  rocks  close  to  the  bank,  by  which  she  sustained  considerable 
damage;  and  proceeded  down  the  river  to  regain  the  squadron  at 
anchor  off  Tanjay  Po,  the  western  part  of  the  Maratabes  branch  of 
the  Sarawak ;  and  here  it  was  found  that  the  steamer  must  be  laid  on 
the  beach,  as  it  was  with  difficulty  the  whole  power  of  the  engines 
applied  to  the  pumps  could  keep  her  afloat ;  she  was  accordingly 
placed  on  the  mud  flat  at  the  entrance  of  the  river.  A  frigate  and  an- 
other steamer  were  lefl  behind  to  assist  in  her  refit,  and  the  admiral 
moved  onwards  towards  Borneo  Proper,  where,  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days,  all  were  re-assembled,  but  in  consequence  of  the  flag-ship,  by 


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VlttIT  TO   SABAWAK,  69 

mistakiDg  the  channel^  haTing  struck  the  ground  on  the  Moamo 
shore  in  going  in,  the  ships  were  moved  outwards  some  considerable 
distance.  Mr.  Brooke^  accompanied  by  an  officer  from  the  Agincourt^ 
visited  the  suJtan  at  the  city  of  firuni;  and^  on  the  following  day, 
the  sultan's  nephew,  heir-presumptive  to  the  throne>  with  a  suite  of 
some  twelve  or  fifteen  Pang^ran  and  chiefs  of  the  blood-royal,  under 
the  <*  yellow  canopy/'  came  down  to  return  the  compliment,  and  to 
communicate  with  the  admiral  on  affairs  of  state;  they  were  received 
with  every  mark  of  distinction  and  kindness  by  the  commander-in-chief, 
and  certainly  there  never  was  exhibited  a  more  perfect  sample  of 
innate  nobility  and  natural  good  manners,  than  was  presented  by 
Buddruden,  to  the  observation  of  those  who  had  the  pleasure  ot 
witnessing  his  reception  on  the  quarter  deck  of  a  British  ship  of 
the  line  by  a  crowd  of  officers,  and  amidst  the  noise  and  smoke  of  a 
salute ;  the  whole  of  this  party  were  the  intimate  friends  of  Mr. 
Brooke  and  firmly  attached  to  British  interests.  Buddruden,  in  reply 
to  some  question  to  him  as  to  his  ever  having  seen  so  large  a  ship 
before,  said  that,  although  descended  from  a  very  ancient  and 
long  line  of  ancestors,  he  had  the  proud  satisfaction  of  being  the 
first  who  had  ever  embarked  on  board  a  vessel  of  such  wonderful 
■lagnitude  and  power,  and  so  much  beyond  any  idea  he  had  formed 
of  a  ship  of  war.  The  most  marked  attention  was  paid  by  those 
who  accompanied  him  to  the  privileges  and  etiquette  of  the  country ; 
none  below  a  certain  rank  presuming  to  sit  down  in  his  highness's 
presence ;  indeed,  only  those  indisputably  of  the  blood-royal  were  ad< 
mitted  to  that  honour ;  every  part  of  the  ship  was  visited,  and  the 
prahu,  with  the  yellow  umbrella-shaped  canopy,  once  more  received 
her  royal  party,  who  proceeded  to  render  an  account  of  their  visit  to 
the  sultan  in  his  regal  palace  at  Bruni,  accompanied  by  the  Pluto 
steamer. 

On  the  following  morning,  the  admiral  hoisted  his  flag  on  board  the 
Vixen,  and,  accompanied  by  the  Pluto  and  Nemesis,  also  steamers, 
and  taking  with  him  a  considerable  force  of  seamen  and  marines,  and 
an  armed  boat  from  each  ship,  proceeded  up  the  river,  with  the  in* 
tendon  of  compelling  Pang^ran  Yussuff  to  return  to  his  obedience  and 
duty  to  the  sultan,  and  to  give  an  account  of  himself  for  being  im- 
plicated in  piratical  transactions. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  armament  opposite  the  town,  the  sultan  held 
a  grand  levee  for  the  reception,  and  in  honour  of  the  admiral's  visit, 
and  the  Pangdran  was  summoned  to  present  himself  in  submission 
to  the  mandate  of  the  sultan.  This  be  refused  to  do,  and  had  even 
the  hardihood  to  approach  the  palace,  and  when  at  last  threatened  to 
have  his  house  blown  about  his  ears,  coolly  answered,  that  the  ships 
might  begin  to  fire  whenever  they  pleased,  that  he  was  ready  for  them ; 
and  sore  enough,  on  the  Vixen  firmg  a  sixty-eight  pounder  over  his 
house  to  show  the  fellow  how  completely  he  was  at  the  mercy  of  the 
squadron,  he  fired  his  guns  in  return.  A  few  rounds  from  the 
steamers  drove  him  from  his  bamboo  fortress.  The  marines  took  pos- 
session, and  his  magazine  was  emptied  of  its  contents  of  gunpowder, 
which  was  sUrted  into  the  river,  and  all  his  brass  guns  were  delivered 
over  to  the  sultan,  with  the  exception  of  two,  which  were  retained,  to 
be  sold  for  the  benefit  of  two  Manilla  Spaniards,  who  had  been  pirat- 
ically seized  as  slaves,  and  who  were  now  taken  on  board  the  squad- 


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70  VISIT  TO   SARAWAK. 

ron  to  be  restored  to  their  home.  HU  house  being  thrown  open  to 
the  tender  mercies  of  his  countrymen,  was  speedily  gutted  of  all  his 
ill-gotten  wealth,  and  \eft  in  desolation.  There  were  no  killed  or 
wounded.  Pangeran  Yussufif  retreated  to  the  interior,  continued  in 
rebellion,  raised  a  force  with  which  he  attacked  the  town  and  Muda 
Hassim's  party,  but  was  defeated,  pursued,  and  killed  by  Pangdran 
Buddruden. 

The  squadron  proceeded  to  Labooan,  cut  wood  with  the  thermo- 
meter at  92\  for  the  steamers,  611ed  them ;  and  on  the  morning  of 
the  15th  of  August,  a  new  order  of  sailing  and  battle  was  given  out 
per  <<  bun  tin,"  and  the  novelty  of  two  frigates  towing  two  steamers, 
was  exhibited  to  the  wondermg  eyes  of  those  present,  called  upon  to 
keep  their  appointed  station,  work  to  windward,  tack  in  succession, 
and  perform  every  evolution  with  the  neatest  precision,  in  spite  of 
light  winds,  heavy  squalls,  and  most  variable  weather. 

The  force  intended  to  attack  the  stockade  and  fortified  port  of 
that  arch-pirate  Scherriff  Posman  on  the  Malloodoo  River,  pro- 
ceeded under  the  immediate  command  of  the  admiral,  who  took  the 
brigs  and  steamers  with  him  to  the  entrance  of  the  river,  and  here  it 
was  found  that  the  iron  steamers,  which  had  caused  such  trouble, 
were  not  of  the  slightest  use,  there  not  being  water  sufficient  even 
for  them  over  the  bar.  The  whole  flotilla  was  placed  under  the 
command  of  Captain  Talbot,  of  the  Vesta,  the  senior  captain  present, 
who,  on  the  morning  of  the  19th  of  August,  attacked  with  great 
gallantry,  and  carried  the  very  strong  position  of  the  pirates,  with  the 
loss  of  eight  killed  and  thirteen  wounded.  The  iron  ordnance  was 
broken,  the  fortification  destroyed,  and  the  town  burned  to  the 
ground.  It  was  reported  the  day  af^er  the  action,  that  the  Arab 
chief  had  been  mortally  wounded,  but  the  squadron  quitted  the  bay 
before  this  was  confirmed. 

I  cannot  leave  Borneo  without  giving  a  brief  description  of  the 
coast  from  the  mouth  of  the  Sarawak  to  this  splendid  bay,  more  par- 
ticularly as  its  features  are  so  widely  different  from  those  generally 
attributed  to  it.  From  the  Sarawak  to  Tanjong  Sirik,  the  land  Is 
low,  and  for  some  miles  from  the  beach  covered  with  mangrove 
jungle,  but  from  that  point  to  Borneo  river,  undulating  ground,  mo- 
derate hills,  and  occasionally  red-sand  cliffs,  mark  the  nature  of  the 
country  to  be  dry  and  susceptible  of  cultivation  ;  and,  as  these  hills 
are  clothed  in  perpetual  verdure,  there  is  nothing  imaginary  in  the 
supposition  that  the  soil  is  salubrious  and  productive.  From  Borneo 
river,  north-eastward,  a  range  of  hills,  of  considerable  altitude,  run 
the  whole  length  of  the  coast,  the  sea,  the  greater  part  of  the  line, 
washing  their  base;  and  immediately  inland,  in  latitude  6%  that 
most  magnificent  and  striking  of  all  eastern  mountains,  Keeney 
Balloo,  towers  to  the  heavens  to  the  height  of  14,000  feet,  cutting 
the  clear  grey  sky  before  sunrise  with  a  sharp  distinctness  never  ex- 
ceeded, and  marking  the  primitive  nature  of  its  formation  beyond 
controversy.  It  may  be  called  an  <<  island  mountain,**  for,  with  the 
exception  of  the  range  of  hills  above  alluded  to,  and  with  which  it 
has  no  continuity,  it  rises  abruptly  from  the  plain,  alone  in  its  glory, 
and  giant  of  the  eastern  stars — 


**  With  meteor  standard  to  the  breeze  unfurrd. 
Looks  from  his  throne  <^  squalli  o*er  half  the  world.'* 


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VISIT  TO   SARAWAK.  71 

The  Bay  of  MaUoodoo  is  extensive,  with  safe  anchorage  everywhere; 
the  coast-raoge  of  hills  terminates  on  its  western  shores,  and  round  to 
the  south-east  the  land  is  of  moderate  height^  with  a  range  of  greater 
altitude  at  some  distance  inland,  and  Keeney  Balloo  bounds  the  view 
at  about  thirty-five  miles  distance  in  the  south-west,  The  land  on  the 
eastern  side  is  low^  but  on  the  whole  a  more  eligible  position  to  plant 
and  protect  a  settlement  is  not  to  be  found  on  the  whole  coast,  and 
it  atands  so  pre-eminently  superior  to  Labooan  or  Balambargan,  and 
would  so  effectually  destroy  piracy  in  the  neighbouring  seas,  that  the 
British  government  ought  to  have  no  hesitation  in  taking  possession 
of  this  bay,  with  sufficient  breadth  of  territory  to  secure  supplies  and 
support  for  a  colony.  It  is  quite  evident,  from  the  manner  in  which 
this  pirate  Arab  has  held  possession  with  impunity,  and,  from  his 
stronghold,  had  carried  on  his  depredations  for  years,  either  that  the 
SuJtan  of  Borneo  acted  in  collusion  with  him,  and  was  a  willing  wit- 
ness to  his  atrocities,  or  that  he  had  not  the  power  to  clear  his  terri- 
tory of  such  a  miscreant.  I  have  no  doubt  of  the  former  being  the 
case,  as  much  of  the  property  acquired  by  blood  and  rapine  has  fre- 
quently been  sold  publicly  in  Borneo ;  perhaps  some  of  it  is  to  be  found 
in  the  palace  of  the  sultan.  There  ought  to  be  no  delicacy  in  this 
matter.  Great  Britain's  claim  to  the  country  is  scarcely  disputed. 
One  well  fortified  post  would,  with  the  presence  of  a  brig-of-war  or 
two,  secure  the  obedience  of  the  whole  district.  As  for  Balambar- 
gan, it  is  an  arid,  sandy  island,  with  scanty  supply  of  water,  and  an 
unproductive  soil.  It  has  two  harbours,  both  small  and  intricate,  and 
must  always  depend  upon  foreign  supply  for  its  sustenance.  Labooan 
may  be  somewhat  better,  but  its  geographical  position  is  not  eligible 
as  a  station  for  vessels  of  war  intended  to  suppress  piracy,  being  too 
far  to  leeward  in  the  north-east  monsoon,  and  too  distant  from  the 
Sooloo  seas  and  adjacent  straits,  now  much  frequented  by  the  nume^ 
rous  vessels  trading  to  China,  to  afford  them  that  protection  which  a 
settlement  at  Malloodoo  would  at  once  accomplish.  Merchant  ves- 
sels using  the  Palawan  passage  from  India  and  the  Straits  of  Malacca, 
would  find  in  Malloodoo  Bay,  during  the  strength  of  the  north-east 
monsoon,  a  wide  and  extensive  anchorage  in  which  to  take  temporary 
shelter,  and  make  any  refit  which  might  become  necessary  from 
working  against  the  monsoon,  as  well  as  easy  access,  equally  conve- 
nient for  vessels  taking  the  Balabac  Straits,  coming  from  thence  and 
Macassar. 

Stone  may  be  had  in  abundance  in  any  part  of  the  bay ;  excellent 
stone-cutters  from  Hong  Kong  in  any  numbers  might  be  procured, 
and  Coolies  in  thousands  would  be  found  to  accompany  them.  A 
week's  run  thence,  in  the  north-east  monsoon,  would  land  a  wing  of  a 
Madras  regiment  on  the  ground,  and  a  few  junks  would  convey  all 
the  living  and  dead  material  necessary  to  place  them  in  comfort  and 
security  in  a  very  short  time.  The  climate  is  good,  the  land  is  rich, 
and  water  abundant;  the  countless  acres  would  soon  attract  the  in- 
dustry of  the  Chinese,  when  once  assured  of  protection  to  their  lives, 
and  undisturbed  possession  of  their  property. 

The  admiral,  accompanied  by  the  Borneo  Commissioners,  went  over 
on  board  the  Vixen  steamer,  to  the  island  Balambargan,  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  2l8t,  and  the  ships  of  the  squadron  followed  in  the  course 
of  the  night,  taking  up  their  anchorage  outside  the  shoals  of  the  south- 


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72  VISIT  TO   SARAWAK. 

ern,  whilst  the  commander-in-chief  and  his  party  went  to  the  northern 
harbours,  where  the  Pluto  had  preceded  them,  and  at  day-dawn  on 
the  22nd,  they  landed  to  explore  the  neighbouring  jungle,  for  the 
site  of  the  settlement  which  had  been  formed  by  the  East  India 
Company  in  1773,  from  which  they  had  been  driven  bjr  the  Sooloo 
people,  but  which  had  been  occupied  a  second  time  m  1803,  and 
evacuated  ultimately  as  a  useless  and  unprofitable  settlement.  The 
British  government  have  always  maintained  their  clear  right  to  this 
island,  ceded  to  them  by  the  King  of  Sooloo,  on  his  being  liberated 
from  prison  at  Manilla,  when  that  city  was  taken  by  Sir  William 
Draper ;  and  Balambargan  is  indisputably  a  British  island,  and  part 
of  the  empire. 

The  position  which  the  town  had  occupied  was  clearly  traced  by 
the  rubbish,  and  brick,  and  mortar,  scattered  over  a  considerable  sur- 
face, and  the  numerous  broken  scraps  of  crockery  and  glass  gave 
sufficient  evidence  that  here  had  been  placed  the  houses,  buildings, 
and  defences  erected  by  the  settlers,  but  all  are  now  silent  and  for- 
lorn. In  this  dry  season  the  soil  was  completely  covered  with  sand, 
and  the  bush  of  a  very  scanty  growth  ;  nor  could  any  indications  of 
water  be  discovered.  A  long  walk  on  the  beach,  in  the  direction  of 
the  southern  harbour,  led  to  no  farther  discovery  than  that  some 
ridges  of  clay  crossed  the  island,  terminating  at  the  shore  in  moderate 
altitude,  and  covered  with  trees  of  considerably  larger  dimensions 
than  those  near  the  site  of  the  town.  A  complete  d^ur  of  the  har- 
bour was  made  by  the  Pluto,  from  the  paddle-boxes  of  which,  the 
surrounding  country  being  almost  level  with  the  sea,  could  be  clearly 
distinguished  as  of  the  same  sandy  nature,  but  which,  in  all  proba* 
bility,  is  in  the  rainy  season,  a  lagoon  entirely  covered  with  water.  It 
had  a  poor  and  uninviting  appearance.  Several  large  baboons  came 
to  the  beach,  and,  taking  up  their  seat  on  some  fallen  trunk  of  a  tree, 
gazed  with  great  tranquillity  at  the  Pluto  as  she  passed  along. 
Many  tracks  of  the  wild  hog  were  seen  on  the  beacn,  but  on  the 
whole,  Balambargan  is  the  last  island  I  should  select  as  my  <'  Bara- 
taria." 

A  short  visit  was  made  to  the  adjacent  island  of  Bangney,  and  a 
boat  went  up  a  river  on  the  south-west  quarter,  running  for  several 
miles  through  low,  flat,  mangrove  jungle,  but  descending  in  clear  cas- 
cades from  the  hilly  part  of  the  island,  which  ranges  entirely  along 
the  north-western  division,  and  terminates  at  the  north  point  in  a 
very  remarkable  and  beautiful  conical  peak,  2000  feet  high,  covered 
to  the  apex  with  evergreen  wood.  Tlie  south-eastern  division  is  flat, 
and  probably  of  the  same  mangrove  jungle  through  which  the  boat 
ascended  the  river,  after  having  with  difficulty  got  over  a  flat  bar  at 
its  entrance.  On  this  expedition  not  a  living  animal  was  seen^  not 
even  a  bird,  but  the  elevated  part  of  Bangney  presented  a  far  more 
inviting  aspect  than  anything  to  be  seen  in  Balambargan.  True, 
there  is  no  harbour,  and,  with  the  exception  of  the  river  alluded 
to,  it  is  said  to  want  water.  The  piratical  prahus  sometimes  ren- 
dezvous here,  in  readiness  to  pounce  on  any  unwary  vessel  passing 
through  the  Balabac  Straits; 

Let  me  express  a  hope  that  the  British  government  will  speedily 
alter  the  face  of  affairs  in  these  seas,  by  supporting  Mr.  Brooke  on 
the  Sarlkwak,  and,  without  loss  of  time,  planting  a  similar  colony  on 
the  shores  of  the  bay  of  Malloodoo. 


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73 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

FBOM   THE   GERMAN   OF  FRBDBRICH    BICHTBR. 
BY     H     J.     WHITLINO. 

It  was  the  last  nijeht  of  the  year ;  and  from  his  Uttice  an  old  man 
gazed  with  a  look  of  despair  upwards  to  the  bright  and  blue  heaven, 
and  downwards  upon  the  tranquil,  white-mantled  earth,  on  which 
no  human  being  was  so  joyless  and  sleepless  as  he. 

His  grave  seemed  to  stand  near  him,  covered,  not  with  the  green 
of  youth,  but  with  the  snow  of  age.  Nothing  had  he  brought  with 
him  out  of  his  whole  life,  nothing  save  his  sins^  follies,  and  diseases, 
a  wasted  body,  a  desolate  soul,  a  heart  filled  with  poison,  and  an 
old  tLge  of  remorse  and  wretchedness. 

And  now,  like  spectres  of  the  past,  the  beautiful  days,  of  his 
youth  passed  in  review  before  him,  and  saddened  memory  was 
there,  and  drew  him  back  again  to  that  bright  morning  when  his 
father  first  placed  him  at  the  opening  paths  of  life,  which,  on  the 
right,  led  by  the  sun-illumined  track  o£  virtue,  into  a  pure  and 
peaceful  lana,  full  of  angels  and  harmony,  of  recompense  and  light, 
— and  on  the  led,  descended  by  the  darkling  mole-ways  of  vice, 
into  a  black  cavern,  dropping  poison,  full  of  deadly  serpents,  and  of 
gloomy  sultry  vapours. 

Those  serpents  were  already  coiled  about  his  breast, — the  poison 
was  on  his  tongue,  and  he  knew  notv  where  he  was  !  Fairy  meteors 
danced  before  him,  extinguishing  themselves  in  the  churchyard, 
and  he  knew  them  to  be  the  days  ofhisfolhs. 

He  saw  a  star  fly  from  heaven,  and  fall  dimmed  and  dissolving  to 
the  earth.  " That,"  said  he,  "is  myself,"  and  the  serpent  fangs  of 
remorse  pierced  still  more  deeply  his  bleeding  heart. 

His  exdted  fancy  now  showed  him  sleep-walkers  gliding  away 
froia  house-tops,  and  the  arms  of  a  giant  windmill  threatened  to 
destroy  him.  He  turned, — he  tried  to  escape, — ^but  a  mask  from  the 
neighbouring  charnel-house  lay  before  him,  and  gradually  assumed 
his  own  features. 

While  in  this  paroxysm,  the  music  of  the  opening  year  flowed 
down  from  the  steeples — falling  upon  his  ear  like  distant  anthems — 
his  troubled  soul  was  soothed  with  gentler  emotions.  He  looked  at 
the  horizon,  and  then  abroad  on  the  wide  world,  and  he  thought  on 
the  friends  of  his  youth,  who,  better  and  more  blest  than  himself, 
were  now  teachers  on  the  earth,  parents  of  families,  and  happy  men! 

In  this  dreamy  retrospect  of  the  days  of  his  youth,  the  fantastic 
features  of  the  mask  seemed  to  change ;  it  raised  itself  up  in  the 
charnel-house, — and  his  weeping  spirit  beheld  his  former  blooming 
figure  placed  thus  in  bitter  mockery  before  him. 

He  could  endure  it  no  longer,— he  covered  his  eyes, — a  flood  of 
scalding  tears  streamed  into  the  snow,— his  bosom  was  relieved,  and 
be  sighed  softly,  unconsciously,  inconsolably — **  Only  come  again, 
youth, — come  only  <mce  again  I " 

And  it  camb  again  !  for  he  had  only  dreamt  so  fearfully  on  that 
new  year's  night.  He  was  siiU  a  youth.  His  errors  alone  had  been 
no  dream,  uid  he  thanked  God  that  while  yet  young  he  could  turn 
from  the  foul  paths  of  vice  into  the  sun-track  which  conducts  to  the 
pure  land  of  blessedness  and  peace. 


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74 


CAREER  OP  THE  HERO  OP  ACRE. 


WITH    A    PORTRAIT     OF    SIR    SIDNEY    SMITH. 

Sir  Sidnet  Smith  was  one  of  those  heroes  whose  impulsive  charac- 
ter seems  to  identify  them  with  romance  rather  than  history.  Sent  to 
sea  at  an  unusually  early  period^  he  had  only  received  as  much  educa- 
tion as  served  to  stimulate  his  feelings  without  maturing  his  judgment, 
and  the  desultory  course  of  reading  he  chose  for  his  own  instruction, 
exalted  his  imagination  heyond  the  due  proportion  of  that  attrihute  to 
the  reasoning  powers.  He  entered  the  navy  in  1775,  being  then  little 
more  than  eleven  years  of  age,  and  was  barely  fourteen  when  he  was 
wounded  in  an  action  between  British  and  American  frigates.  Among 
his  companions  as  a  midshipman,  was  the  late  William  IV;  they 
both  served  under  Sir  George  Rodney  in  the  battle  off  Cape  St.  Vin- 
cent, and  Smith  was  a  lieutenant  in  the  still  more  memorable  engage- 
ment of  the  12th  of  April  1782,  when  Rodney  achieved  a  conquest, 
rather  than  a  victory,  over  Count  de  Grasse,  in  the  West  Indian  Seas. 

In  1789  Captain  Smith,  whose  promotion  had  been  very  rapid,  ob- 
tained leave  of  absence  for  the  purpose  of  making  a  tour  to  the  north- 
em  courts,  but  he  does  not  appear  to  have  gone  farther  than  Stock- 
holm. Here  similarity  of  disposition  procured  him  the  friendship  of 
the  chivalrous  King  of  Sweden,  Gustavus  III.,  then  engaged  in  a  war 
with  Russia,  and  in  a  far  more  dangerous  struggle  against  his  own  feu- 
dal aristocracy.  Though  unable  to  obtain  permission  from  his  own  go- 
vernment to  enter  into  the  Swedish  service,  Captain  Smith  accompanied 
Gustavus  through  the  campaign  of  1 790,  acting  more  as  a  conOdential 
adviser  than  a  disinterested  spectator.  He  saw  the  plans  which  Gus- 
tavus had  judiciously  formed,  and  which,  if  acted  upon,  would  have  been 
completely  successful,  utterly  frustrated  by  the  disaffection  and  inca- 
pacity of  the  Swedish  naval  officers.  Never  was  there  a  more  signal 
instance  of  men  allowing  the  feelings  of  party  to  triumph  over  those  of 
patriotism ;  adequately  supported,  Gustavus  might  have  seized  St. 
Petersburg ;  deserted  and  betrayed,  he  had  to  tremble  for  Stockholm. 
Even  thus  he  concluded  no  inglorious  peace,  and  he  shewed  his  grati- 
tude for  the  services  of  Sidney  Smith,  by  sending  him  the  Swedish 
Order  of  the  Sword,  at  the  close  of  the  war.  The  English  court  sanc- 
tioned the  honour,  and  the  ceremonial  of  investiture  was  performed  by 
George  III.  at  St.  James's. 

Sir  Sidney  Smith  was  sent  on  a  special  mission  to  Constantinople, 
apparently  to  examine  the  adequacy  of  the  Turkish  power  to  resist  a 
Russian  invasion.  He  was  summoned  home  in  consequence  of  the 
breaking  out  of  the  war  with  revolutionary  France ;  and  observing  at 
Smyrna  a  number  of  British  seamen  wandering  about,  he  engaged  them 
as  volunteers,  and  having  purchased  a  small  vessel,  hasted  to  join  Lord 
Hood,  who  had  just  taken  possession  of  Toulon.  The  unhappy  result 
of  that  occupation  is  known  to  history ;  it  is  only  necessary  to  state  that 
the  burning  of  the  ships,  stores,  and  arsenal,  which  had  unaccountably 
been  neglected  to  the  latest  moment,  was  the  work  of  Sir  Sidney  Smith, 
who  volunteered  it  under  the  disadvantage  of  there  being  no  previous 
preparation  for  it  whatever.     As  he  was  at  this  time  an_  officer  on  half- 


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CAREER  OF  THE  HERO  OF  ACRE.  75 

pay^  the  French  pretended  to  regard  his  mterference  as  an  act  of  piracy, 
and  this  laid  the  foundation  of  the  personal  hatred  with  which  he  was 
regarded  by  Napoleon. 

The  service  to  which  he  was  next  appointed  was  one  calculated  to  in- 
crease the  hatred  of  the  French  against  Sir  Sidney  personally.  He  was 
sent  in  command  of  the  Diamond  frigate,  to  clear  the  channel  of  French 
prirateers  and  cruisers,  and  to  keep  in  alarm  by  repeated  attacks  the 
Tarions  points  and  ports  of  the  coast*  After  having  performed  several 
dashing  exploits,  he  was  unfortunately  captured  off  the  port  of  Hayre 
in  a  lugger,  and  instead  of  being  treated  as  a  prisoner  of  war,  he  was 
sent  as  a  state  criminal  to  Paris,  and  confined  in  the  Temple.  After 
two  years  of  close,  but  not  very  severe  captivity,  he  succeeded  in  making 
his  escape,  and  returned  safely  to  England. 

Napoleon  soon  after  sailed  with  an  immense  armament  for  Egypt ; 
and  Sir  Sidney  Smith,  who  had  been  appointed  to  the  command  of  the 
Tigre,  was  sent  to  join  the  Mediterranean  fleet,  then  under  the  com- 
mand of  Earl  St.  Vincent ;  but  he  also  received  a  commission  appoint- 
ing him  joint  minister  plenipotentiary  with  his  brother,  at  the  court  of 
Constantinople ;  and  as  this  commission  was  distinct  from  any  orders 
of  the  Board  of  Admiralty,  it  seemed  to  give  him  an  independence 
of  his  superiors  in  command,  which  was  very  offensive  to  Earl  St. 
Vincent  and  Admiral  Nelson.  Fortunately  his  diplomatic  mission  en- 
abled him  to  reach  St.  Jean  d'Acre  two  days  before  Buonaparte  arrived 
before  that  town,  which,  though  wretchedly  provided  with  the  means  of 
defence,  was  the  key  of  Syria,  and  perhaps  of  the  Ottoman  Empire. 
The  little  British  squadron  infused  such  courage  into  the  Turks,  both 
by  their  presence  and  example,  that  Napoleon  was  stopped  in  the  full 
career  of  victory.  The  siege  lasted  sixty  days,  and  there  was  hardly 
one  of  those  days  in  which  the  seamen  and  marines  of  the  three  British 
ships,  led  by  their  gallant  commander,  did  not  perform  some  brilliant 
and  dashing  achievement.  His  own  graphic  but  modest  record  of  his 
seryices,  published  in  Mr.  Barrow's  volumes,  is  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing narratives  of  war  to  be  found  in  any  language. 

We  shall  not  attempt  to  abridge  it;  our  readers  will  be  far  more 
grateful  to  us  if  they  take  our  advice  and  read  the  story  in  the  hero's 
inimitable  words.  Among  the  numerous  tributes  of  honour  paid  him 
by  a  grateful  country  not  the  least  pleasing  to  his  feelings,  was  a  warm 
letter  of  congratulation  from  Nelson,  which  showed  that  the  great 
admiral  forgot  all  personal  feelings  of  jealousy  when  the  glory  of  his 
country  was  concerned. 

After  the  departure  of  Buonaparte  from  his  army,  Kleber,  who  suc- 
ceeded to  the  command,  was  anxious  to  make  a  convention  with  the 
English  and  Turkish  authorities  for  the  evacuation  of  Egypt,  llie 
British  government  disapproved  of  the  terms  which  Sir  Sidney  Smith 
was  disposed  to  grant,  and  this  involved  him  in  some  painful  discus- 
sions with  the  Earl  of  Elgin,  who  had  superseded  him  in  the  embas^ 
to  Constantinople.  A  cry  was  raised  that  Sir  Sicbey  Sinith  was 
too  much  disposed  to  favour  the  Fraad;  aad  tlMiigh  Sir  Ralph 
Abercrombie  cheerfully  availed  himself  of  his  assistance  in  landing 
the  British  expedition  at  Alexandria ;  yet,  on  the  death  of  that  gene- 
ral. Lord  Hutchinson,  who  succeeded  to  the  command,  removed  Sir 
Sidney  Smith  from  the  command  of  the  gun -boats  attached  to  the 
army,  a  slight  which  was  felt  very  keenly.      Admiral  Lord  Keith 


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76  CAREER  OF  THE  HERO  OF  ACRE. 

soothed  Sir  Sidney's  feelings  by  sending  him  home  with  the  despatches 
announcing  the  victorions  progress  of  the  British  arms  in  Egypt.  He 
was  received  at  home  with  rapturous  enthusiasm;  congratulatory  ad-- 
-dfesses  poured  in  upon  him  from  all  sides^  and  he  was  elected  to  parlia- 
ment for  the  city. 

The  treaty  of  Amiens  was  a  suspension  of  arms  rather  than  a  peaea. 
Soon  after  the  renewal  of  ho8dlities>  Sir  Sidney  Smith  was  appointed  to 
the  command  of  a  small  squadron  in  the  north  seas,  with  the  rank 
of  commodore.-  Repeated  vexations  induced  him  to  resign,  but  to- 
wards the  close  of  1805,.  he  was  promoted  to  the  rank  of  rear^admirati 
fmd,  sent  to  join  Lord  Collingwood  in  the  Mediterranean. 

The  duty  which  now  devolved  on  Sir  Sidney  Smith  was  to  protect 
Sicily  and  recover  the  kingdom  of  Naples  from  the  French.  As  the 
latter  object  was  soon  found  unattainable,  he  was  ordered  to  join  Sir 
John  Duckworth  in  the  memorable  and  unfortunate  expedition  to  the 
-Dardanelles.  We  deem  it  fortunate  that  our  limited  space  precluded 
-the  possibility  of  our  criticising  an  expedition  badly  planned  and  worse 
executed ;  and  we  have  just  as  little  regret  at  being  compelled  to.  pass 
over  the  employment  of  such  a  hero  as  Sir  Sidney  Smith  in  escorting 
the  Prince  Regent  of  Portugal  to  the  Brazils.  It  is  useless  to  disguise 
the  fact  that  the  name  of  Sir  Sidney  Smith  had  appeared  in  what  was  called 
the  <*  Delicate  Investigation**  into  the  conduct  of  the  Princess  of  Wales, 
and  that  thenceforth,  he  was  doomed  to  feel  the  coldness  and  almost 
hostility  of  the  cabinet.  After  a  harassing  and  thankless  service  in  the 
Mediterranean,  he  returned  to  England  in  1814,  and  hauled  down  his 
flag  which  was  never  again  hoisted* 

Impatient  of  idleness.  Sir  Sidney  Smith  devoted  his  energies  to  the 
formation  of  a  general  society  for  the  abolition  of  Christian  Slavery, 
carried  on  by  the  Barbary  States ;  he  contrived  to  interest  the  Congress 
of  European  Sovereigns  assembled  at  Vienna,  in  this  project,  and  formed 
a  society  of  knights  and  liberators.  The  brilliant  exploits  of  Lord  Ex- 
mouth,  at  Algiers,  soon  rendered  the  association  useless,  and  its  objects 
were  always  too  limited  to  allow  of  its  acquiring  general  interest 

Until  the  publication  of  Mr.  Barrow's  book,  we  were  not  aware  that 
Sir  Sidney  Smith  was  actually  present  at  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  He 
was  at  Brussels  with  his  family  when  intelligence  of  the  probability  of  an 
engagement  arrived;  his  love  of  adventure  induced  him  to  hasten  to  the 
field,  but  merely  as  a  spectator.  When,  however, ''  the  red  field  was  won,'* 
he  honourably  exerted  himself  to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of  the  wounded, 
and  spared  neither  his  purse  nor  his  labour  in  this  generous  service.  It 
was  probably  through  the  exertions  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  that  he 
was .  soon  after  created  a  Knight  Commander  of  the  Bath,  an  honour 
tardily  and,  we  believe,  reluctantly  conceded  by  the  Prince  Regent. 

Sir  Sidney  Smith's  acceptance  of  the  office  of  the  Regent  of  the 
Knights  Templars,  and  his  pertinacious  efforts  to  restore  that  order  to 
something  of  its  ancient  dignity  are  clear  proofs  that  the  chivalry  of  his 
character  had  a  tendency  to  degenerate  into  quixotism ;  and  this  was 
probably  the  reason  why  he  continued  to  be  neglected  after  the  acces- 
sion of  his  old  comrade,  William  IV.,  to  the  throne.  In  1838,  he 
received  from  her  present  Majesty  the  Grand  Cross  of  the  Order  of 
the  Bath.  He  died  at  Paris,  May  26th,  1840,  and  was  followed  to  the 
grave  by  the  most  distinguished  foreign  officers  then  assembled  in  the 
French  capital. 


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77 


CAPTAIN  SPIKE; 
OR,   THE    ISLETS    OF  THE    GULF. 

BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF    "THE   PILOT,"   "RED    ROVER,"   ETC. 

The  tcrMmi  of  rage,  the  groan,  the  strife. 

The  blow,  the  grasp,  the  horrid  cry. 
The  panting,  throttled  prayer  for  life, 
The  dying*8  heaving  sigh. 
The  miirderer*8  corse,  the  dead  man's  fixed,  still  glare, 
And  fear's  and  death's  cold  swei^t — they  all  are  there. 

Matthew  lA. 


CHAPTBB   XV. 

It  was  high  time  that  Capt.  Spike  should  arrive  when  his  foot 
touched  the  bottom  of  the  yawl.  The  men  were  getting  impatient 
and  anxious  to  the  last  degree,  and  the  power  of  Senor  Montefalderon 
to  control  them,  was  lessening  each  instant.  Thej  heard  the  rending 
of  timber,  and  the  grinding  on  the  coral,  even  more  distinctly  than 
the  captain  himself,  and  feared  that  the  britt  would  break  up  while 
they  lay  alongside  of  her,  and  crush  them  amid  the  ruins.  Then  the 
spray  of  the  seas  that  broke  over  the  weather-side  of  the  brig,  fell 
like  rain  upon  them ;  and  every  body  in  the  boat  was  already  as  wet 
as  if  exposed  to  a  violent  shower.  It  was  well,  therefore,  for  Spike, 
that  he  descended  into  the  boat  as  he  did,  for  another  minute's  delay 
-might  have  brought  about  his  own  destruction. 

Spike  felt  a  chill  at  his  heart  when  he  looked  about  him  and  saw 
the  condition  of  the  yawl.  So  crowded  were  the  stem-sheets  into 
which  he  had  descended,  that  it  was  with  difficultv  he  found  room  to 
place  his  feet ;  it  being  his  intention  to  steer,  Jack  was  ordered  .to  get 
into  the  eyes  of  the  boat,  in  order  to  give  him  a  seat  The  thwarts 
were  crowded,  and  three  or  four  of  the  people  had  placed  themselves 
in  the  very  bottom  of  the  little  craft,  in  order  to  be  as  much  as  pos- 
sible out  of  the  way,  as  well  as  in  readiness  to  bale  out  water.  So 
seriously,  indeed,  were  all  the  seamen  impressed  with  the  gravity  of 
this  last  duty,  that  nearly  every  man  had  taken  with  him  some  vessel 
fit  for  such  a  purpose.  Rowing  was  entirely  out  of  the  question,  there 
beiDg  no  space  for  the  movement  of  the  arms.  The  yawl  was  too  low 
in  the  water,  moreover,  for  such  an  operation  in  so  heavy  a  sea.  In 
all,  eighteen  persons  were  squeezed  into  a  little  craft  that  would  have 
been  sufficiently  loaded,  for  moderate  weather  at  sea,  with  its  four 
oarsmen  and  as  many  sitters  in  the  stem-sheets,  with,  perhaps,  one  in 
the  eyes  to  bring  her  more  on  an  even  keel.  In  other  words,  she  had 
just  twice  the  weight  in  her,  in  living  freight,  that  it  would  have  been 
thought  prudent  to  receive  in  so  small  a  craft,  in  an  ordinary  time,  in 
or  out  of  a  port.  In  addition  to  the  human  beings  enumerated,  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  baggage,  nearly  everj  individual  having  had  the 
forethought  to  provide  a  few  clothes  for  a  change.  The  food  and 
water  did  not  amount  to  much,  no  more  having  been  provided  than 
enough  for  the  purposes  of  the  captain,  together  with  the  four  men 
with  whom  it  had  been  his  intention  to  abandon  the  brig.  The  effect 
of  all  this  cargo  was  to  bring  the  yawl  quite  low  in  the  water;  and 


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78  CAPTAIN   SPIKE; 

every  seafaring  roan  in  her  had  the  greatest  apprehensions  about  her 
being  able  to  float  at  all  when  she  got  out  from  under  the  lee  of  the 
Swash,  or  into  the  troubled  water.  Try  it  she  must,  however,  and 
Spike,  in  a  reluctant  and  hesitating  manner,  gave  the  6nal  order  to 
"shove  off!" 

The  yawl  carried  a  lugg,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  boats  at  sea, 
and  the  first  blast  of  the  breeze  upon  it  satisfied  Spike  that  his  pre- 
sent enterprise  was  one  of  the  most  dangerous  of  any  in  which  he  had 
ever  been  engaged.  The  puffs  of  wind  were  quite  as  much  as  the 
boat  would  bear ;  but  this  he  did  not  mind,  as  he  was  running  off 
before  it,  and  there  was  little  danger  of  the  yawl  capsizing  with  such 
a  weight  in  her.  It  was  also  an  advantage  to  have  swift  way  on,  to 
prevent  the  combing  waves  from  shooting  into  the  boat,  though  the 
wind  itself  scarce  outstrips  the  send  of  the  sea  in  a  stiff  blow.  As 
the  yawl  cleared  the  brig  and  began  to  feel  the  united  power  of  the 
wind  and  waves,  the  following  short  dialogue  occurred  between  the 
boatswain  and  Spike. 

"I  dare  not  keep  my  eyes  off  the  breakers  ahead,"  the  captain 
commenced,  "  and  must  trust  to  you,  Strand,  to  report  what  is  going 
on  among  the  man-of-war's  men.     What  is  the  ship  about?" 

"  Reefing  her  top-sails  just  now,  sir.  All  three  are  on  the  caps,  and 
the  vessel  is  laying-to,  in  a  manner.'* 

"And  her  boats?" 

"  I  see  none,  sir — ay,  ay,  there  they  come  from  alongside  of  her  in 
a  little  fleet  I  There  are  four  of  them,  sir,  and  all  are  coming  down 
before  the  wind,  wing  and  wing,  carrying  their  luggs  reefed." 

"  Ours  ought  to  be  reefed  by  rights,  too,  but  we  dare  not  stop  to 
do  it ;  and  these  infernal  combing  seas  seem  ready  to  glance  aboard 
us  with  all  the  way  we  can  gather.  Stand  by  to  bale,  men ;  we  must 
pass  through  a  strip  of  white  water — there  is  no  help  for  it.  God 
send  that  we  go  clear  of  the  rocks  1 " 

All  this  was  fearfully  true.  The  adventurers  were  not  yet  more 
than  a  cable's  length  from  the  brig,  and  they  found  themselves  so 
completely  environed  with  the  breakers,  as  to  be  compelled  to  go 
through  them.  No  man  in  his  senses  would  ever  have  come  into  such 
a  place  at  all,  except  in  the  most  unavoidable  circumstances ;  and  it 
was  with  a  species  of  despair  that  the  seamen  of  the  yawl  now  saw 
their  little  crafl  go  plunging  into  the  foam. 

But  Spike  neglected  no  precaution  that  experience  or  skill  could 
suggest.  He  had  chosen  his  spot  with  coolness  and  judgment.  As 
the  boat  rose  on  the  seas,  he  looked  eagerly  ahead,  and  by  giving  it 
a  timely  sheer,  he  hit  a  sort  of  channel,  where  there  was  sufficient 
water  to  carry  them  clear  of  the  rock,  and  where  the  breakers  were 
less  dangerous  than  in  the  shoaler  places.  The  passage  lasted  about 
a  minute ;  and  so  serious  was  it,  that  scarce  an  individual  breathed 
until  it  was  effected.  No  human  skill  could  prevent  the  water  from 
combing  in  over  the  gunwales;  and  when  the  danger  was  passed, 
the  yawl  was  a  third  filled  with  water.  There  was  no  time  or 
place  to  pause,  but  on  the  little  craft  was  dragged  almost  gunwale  to, 
the  breeze  coming  against  the  lugg  in  puffs  that  threatened  to  take 
the  mast  out  of  her.  All  hands  were  baling;  and  even  Biddy  used 
her  hands  to  aid  in  throwing  out  the  water. 

"  This  is  no  time  to  hesitate,  men,'*  said  Spike,  sternly.     "  Every 


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OR,    THE  ISLETS   OF  THE   GULF.  79 

thing  must  go  overboard  but  the  food  and  water.     Away  with  them 
at  once,  and  with  a  will." 

It  was  a  proof  how  completely  all  hands  were  alarmed  by  this,  the 
first  experiment  in  the  breakers,  that  not  a  man  stayed  his  hand  a 
single  moment,  but  each  threw  into  the  sea,  without  an  instant  of 
hesitation,  every  article  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  had  hoped  to 
save.  Biddy  parted  with  the  carpet-bag,  and  Se5or  Montefalderon, 
feeling  the  importance  of  example,  committed  to  the  deep  a  small 
writing-desk  that  he  had  placed  on  his  knees.  The  doubloons  alone 
remained  safe  in  a  little  locker  where  Spike  had  deposited  them  along 
with  his  own. 

*■  What  news  astern,  boatswain  ?  "  demanded  the  captain,  as.  soon 
as  this  imminent  danger  was  passed,  absolutely  afraid  to  turn  his  eyes 
off  the  dangers  ahead  for  a  single  instant.  ^'  How  come  on  the  man- 
of-war's  men  ?  " 

^  They  are  running  down  in  a  body  toward  the  wreck,  though  one 
of  their  boats  does  seem  to  be  sheering  out  of  the  line,  as  if  getting 
into  our  wake.     It  is  hard  to  say,  sir,  for  they  are  still  a  good  bit  to 
windward  of  the  wreck." 
"  And  the  Molly,  Strand  ?" 

**  Why,  sir,  the  Molly  seems  to  be  breaking  up  fast ;  as  well  as  I 
can  see,  she  has  broke  in  two  just  abafl  the  fore-chains,  and  cannot 
hold  together  in  any  shape  at  all  many  minutes  longer.** 

This  information  drew  a  deep  groan  from  Spike,  and  the  eye  of 
every  seaman  in  the  boat  was  turned  in  melancholy  on  the  object  they 
were  so  fast  leaving  behind  them.  The  yawl  could  not  be  said  to  be 
sailing  very  rapidly,  considering  the  power  of  the  wind,  which  was 
a  little  gale,  for  she  was  much  too  deep  for  that ;  but  she  left  the 
wreck  so  fast  as  already  to  render  objects  on  board  her  indistinct. 
Everybody  saw  that,  like  an  overburdened  steed,  she  had  more  to  get 
along  with  than  she  could  well  bear;  and,  dependent  as  seamen 
usually  are  on  the  judgment  and  orders  of  their  superiors,  even  in 
the  direst  emergencies,  the  least  experienced  man  in  her  saw  that 
their  chances  of  final  escape  from  drowning  were  of  the  most  doubt- 
ful nature.  The  men  looked  at  each  other  in  a  way  to  express  their 
feelings ;  and  the  moment  seemed  favourable  to  Spike  to  confer  with 
his  confidential  sea-dogs  in  private ;  but  more  white  water  was  ahead, 
and  it  was  necessary  to  pass  through  it,  since  no  opening  was  visible 
by  which  to  avoid  it.  He  deferred  his  purpose,  consequently,  until 
this  danger  was  escaped. 

On  this  occasion  Spike  saw  hut  little  opportunity  to  select  a  place 
to  get  through  the  breakers,  though  the  spot,  as  a  whole,  was  not  of 
the  most  dangerous  kind.  The  reader  will  understand  that  the  pre- 
servation of  the  boat  at  all,  in  white  water,  was  owing  to  the  circum- 
stance that  the  rocks  all  round  it  lay  so  near  the  surface  of  the  sea, 
as  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  agitating  the  element  very  seriously, 
and  to  the  fact  that  she  was  near  the  lee  side  of  the  reef.  Had  the 
breakers  been  of  the  magnitude  of  those  which  are  seen  where  the 
deep  rolling  billows  of  the  ocean  first  met  the  weather  side  of  the 
shoals  or  rocks,  a  craft  of  that  size,  and  so  loaded,  could  not  possibly 
have  passed  the  first  liue  of  white  water  without  filling.  As  it  was, 
however,  the  breakers  she  had  to  contend  with  were  sufficiently 
formidable,  and  they  brought  with  them  the  certainty  that  the  boat 


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80  CAPTAIN  SPIKE; 

was  in  imminent  danger  of  striking  the  bottom  at  any  moment. 
Places  like  those  in  which  Mulford  had  waded  on  the  reef,  while  it 
was  calm,  would  now  have  proved  fatal  to  the  strongest  frame,  since 
human  powers  were  insufficient  long  to  withstand  the  force  of  such 
waves  as  did  glance  over  even  these  shallows. 

*'  Look  out  I "  cried  Spike,  as  the  boat  again  plunged  in  among  the 
white  water.    "  Keep  baling,  men — ^keep  baling." 

The  men  did  bale,  and  the  danger  was  over  almost  as  soon  as  en- 
countered, Something  like  a  cheer  burst  out  of  the  chest  of  Spike, 
when  he  saw  deeper  water  around  him,  and  fancied  he  could  now  trace 
a  channel  that  would  carry  him  quite  beyond  the  extent  of  the  reef. 
It  was  arrested,  only  half  uttered,  however,  by  a  communication  from 
the  boatswain,  who  sat  on  a  midship  thwart,  his  arms  folded,  and  his 
eye  on  the  brig  and  the  boats. 

**  There  goes  the  Molly's  masts,  sir  I  Both  have  gone  together ; 
and  as  good  sticks  was  they,  before  tliem  bomb-shells  passed  through 
our  rigging,  as  was  ever  stepped  in  a  keelson," 

The  cheer  was  changed  to  something  like  a  gp'oan,  while  a  murmur 
of  regret  passed  through  the  boat. 

*<What  news  from  the  man-of-war's  men,  boatswain?  Do  they 
still  stand  down  on  a  mere  wreck?** 

^'  No^  sir;  they  seem  to  give  it  up,  and  are  getting  out  their  oars 
to  pull  back  to  their  ship.  A  pretty  time  they  '11  have  of  it,  too. 
The  cutter  that  gets  to  windward  half  a  mile  in  an  hour,  ag'in  such  a 
sea,  and  such  a  breeze,  must  be  well  pulled  and  better  steered.  One 
chap,  however,  sir,  seems  to  hold  on." 

.  Spike  now  ventured  to  look  behind  him,  commanding  an  expe- 
rienced band  to  take  the  helm.  In  order  to  do  this  he  was  obliged 
to  change  places  with  the  man  he  had  selected  to  come  aft,  which 
brought  him  on  a  thwart  alongside  of  the  boatswain  and  one  or  two 
other  of  his  confidants.  Here  a  whispered  conference  took  place, 
which  lasted  several  minutes.  Spike  appearing  to  be  giving  instruc- 
tions to  the  men. 

By  this  time  the  yawl  was  more  than  a  mile  from  the  wreck,  all 
the  man-of-war  boats  but  one  had  lowered  their  sails,  and  were  pull- 
ing slowly  and  with  great  labour  back  toward  the  ship,  the  cutter  that 
kept  on  evidently  laying  her  course  afler  the  yawl,  instead  of  stand- 
ing on  toward  the  wreck.  The  brig  was  breaking  up  fast,  with  every 
probability  that  nothing  would  be  left  of  her  in  a  few  more  minutes. 
As  for  the  yawl,  while  clear  of  the  white  water,  it  got  along  without 
receiving  many  seas  aboard,  though  the  men  in  its  bottom  were  kept 
baling  without  intermission.  It  appeared  to  Spike  that  so  long  aa 
they  remained  on  the  reef,  and  could  keep  clear  of  breakers — a  most 
difficult  thing,  however — they  should  fare  better  than  if  in  deeper 
water,  where  the  swell  of  the  sea,  and  the  combing  of  the  waves, 
menaced  so  small  and  so  deep-loaded  a  craft  with  serious  danger. 
As  it  was,  two  or  tliree  men  could  barely  keep  the  boat  clear,  work- 
ing incessantly,  and  most  of  the  time  with  a  foot  or  two  of  water  in 
her. 

Josh  and  Simon  had  taken  their  seats,  side  by  side,  with  that  sort 
of  dependence  and  submission  that  causes  the  American  black  to  abs- 
tain from  mingling  with  the  whites  more  than  might  appear  seemly. 
They  were  squeezed  on  to  one  end  of  the  thwart  by  a  couple  of  ro- 


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OR,   THE  ISLETS  OF  THE  GULF.  81 

bust  old  sea-dogs,  who  were  two  of  the  very  men  with  whom  Spike 
had  been  in  consultation.  Beneath  that  very  thwart  was  stowed 
another  confidant,  to  whom  communications  had  also  been  made. 
These  men  had  sailed  long  m  the  Swash,  and  having  been  picked  up 
in  various  ports,  from  time  to  time,  as  the  brig  had  wanted  hands, 
they  were  of  nearly  as  many  different  nations  as  they  were  persons. 
Spike  had  obtamed  a  great  ascendency  over  them  by  habit  and  au- 
thority, and  his  suggestions  were  now  received  as  a  sort  of  law.  As 
soon  as  the  conference  was  ended,  the  captain  returned  to  the  helm. 

A  minute  more  passed,  during  which  the  captain  was  anxiously 
surveying  the  reef  ahead,  and  the  state  of  things  astern.  Ahead  was 
more  white  water — the  last  before  they  should  get  clear  of  the  reef; 
and  astern  it  was  now  settled  that  the  cutter,  that  held  on  through 
the  dangers  of  the  place,  was  in  chase  of  the  yawl.  That  Mulford 
was  in  her.  Spike  made  no  doubt ;  and  the  thought  embittered  even 
his  present  calamities.  But  the  moment  had  arrived  for  some- 
thing decided.  The  white  water  ahead  was  much  more  formidable 
than  any  they  had  passed ;  and  the  boldest  seaman  there  gazed  at  it 
with  dread.  Spike  made  a  sign  to  the  boatswain,  and  commenced  the 
execution  of  his  dire  project. 

''I  say,  you  Josh,"  called  out  the  captain,  in  the  authoritative  tones 
that  are  so  familiar  to  all  on  board  a  ship,  **  pull  in  that  fender  that  is 
clinging  alongside." 

Josh  leaned  over  the  gunwale,  and  reported  that  there  was  no  fen- 
der out*  A  malediction  followed,  also  so  familiar  to  those  acquainted 
with  ships,  and  the  black  was  told  to  look  again.  This  time,  as  had 
been  expected,  the  negro  leaned  with  his  head  and  body  far  over  the 
side  of  the  yawl,  to  look  for  that  which  had  no  existence,  when  two  of 
the  men  beneath  the  thwart  shoved  his  legs  after  them.  Josh 
screamed,  as  he  found  himself  going  into  the  water,  with  a  sort  of 
conibsed  consciousness  of  the  truth ;  and  Spike  called  out  to  Simon 
to  **  catch  hold  of  his  brother  nigger."  The  cook  bent  forward  to 
obey,  when  a  similar  assault  on  hU  legs  from  beneath  the  thwart  sent 
him  headlong  afler  Josh.  One  of  the  younger  seamen,  who  was  not 
in  the  secret,  sprang  up  to  rescue  Simon,  who  grasped  his  extended 
hand,  when  the  too  generous  fellow  was  pitched  headlong  from  the  boat. 

All  this  occurred  in  less  than  ten  seconds  of  time,  and  so  unexpect- 
edly and  naturally,  that  not  a  soul,  beyond  those  who  were  in  the 
secret,  had  the  least  suspicion  it  was  anything  but  an  accident.  Some 
water  was  shipped,  of  necessity,  but  the  boat  was  soon  baled  free. 
As  for  the  victims  of  this  vile  conspiracy,  they  disappeared  amid  the 
troubled  waters  of  the  reef,  struggling  with  each  other.  Each  and 
all  met  the  common  fate  so  much  the  sooner,  from  the  manner  in 
which  they  impeded  their  own  efforts. 

The  yawl  was  now  relieved  from  about  five  hundred  pounds  of  the 
weight  it  had  carried — Simon  weighing  two  hundred  alone,  and  the 
youngish  seaman  being  large  and  full.  So  intense  does  huinan  self- 
ishness get  to  be,  in  moments  of  great  emergency,  that  it  is  to  be 
feared  most  of  those  who  remained  secretly  rejoiced  that  they  were 
so  far  benefited  by  the  loss  of  their  fellows.  The  Sefior  MontefiU- 
deron  was  seated  on  the  aftermost  thwart,  with  his  legs  in  the  stern- 
sheets,  and  consequently  with  his  back  toward  the  negroes ;  and  he 
fully  believed  that  what  had  happened  was  purely  accidental. 

VOL.  ZXIII.  O 

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82  CAPTAIN   spike; 

''Let  US  lower  our  sail^  Don  Estebany**  he  cried,  eagerly,   ''and 
saTe  the  poor  fellows." 

Something  Ter^  like  a  tneer  gleamed  on  the  dark  countenance  of 
the  captain,  but  it  suddenly  dialled  to  a  look  of  assent* 

«<Goodr  he  said,  hastily;  "spring  forward,  Don  Wan,  and  lower 
the  sail — stand  by  the  oars,  men  T 

Without  pausing  to  reflect,  the  generoua-hearted  Mexican  stepped 
on  a  thwart,  and  began  to  walk  rapidly  forward,  steadjring  btmaelf 
by  placing  hk  hands  on  the  heads  of  the  men.  He  was  su^ered  to 
get  aa  far  as  the  second  thwart,  or  past  most  of  the  conspirators, 
wh«n  his  legs  were  seized  from  behind.  The  truth  bow  flaahed  on 
him,  and  grasping  two  of  the  men  in  his  front,  who  knew  nothing 
of  Spike's  dire  scheme^  he  endeavoured  to  save  himself  bj  holding  to 
their  jackets.  Thus  assailed,  those  men  seized  others  with  like  in- 
tent, and  an  awful  struggle  filled  all  that  part  of  the  craf^  At  thia 
dread  instant  the  boat  glanced  into  the  white  water,  shipping  so  much 
of  the  element  as  nearly  to  swamp  her,  and  taking  so  wild  a  sheer, 
as  nearly  to  broach-to.  This  last  circumstance  probably  saved  her, 
fearful  as  waa  the  danger  for  the  moment.  Everybody  in  the  middle 
of  the  yawl  was  rendered  desperate  by  the  amount  and  nature  of  the 
danger  incurred,  and  the  men  from  the  bottom  rose  in  their  might, 
underneath  the  combatants,  when  a  common  plunge  was  made  by  all 
who  stood  erect,  one  dragging  overboard  another,  each  a  good  deal 
hastened  by  the  assauk  from  beneath,  until  no  less  than  six  were 
gone.  Spike  got  his  helm  up,  the  boat  fell  off,  and  away  from  the  spot 
it  flew,  clearing  the  breakers,  and  reaching  the  northern  walKlike  mar- 
gin of  the  reef  at  the  next  instant  There  was  now  a  moment  when 
those  who  renaained  could  breathe,  and  dared  to  look  behind  them. 

The  great  plunge  had  been  made  in  water  so  shoal,  that  the  boat 
had  barely  escM>ed  being  dashed  to  pieces  on  the  coraL  Had  it 
not  been  so  suddenly  relieved  from  the  pressure  of  near  a  thousand 
pounds  in  weight,  it  is  probable  that  this  oilaraity  would  have  be- 
follan  it,  the  water  received  on  board  contributing  so  much  to  weigh 
k  dowB»  The  struggle  between  these  victims  ceased,  however,  the 
muBiant  they  went  over*  Finding  bottom  for  their  feet>  they  re- 
leased each  other^  in  a  desperate  hope  of  pnrfonging  lifo  by  wading* 
Two  or  three  hdd  out  their  arms,  and  i^outed  to  Spike  to  return 
and  pick  them  up.  This  dreadful  scene  lasted  but  a  nngle  instant, 
for  the  waves  dashed  one  nSker  another  from  his  feet,  continually 
forcing  them  all,  as  they  occasiondly  regained  their  footing,  toward 
the  margin  of  the  reef,  and  finally  washing  them  off  it  into  deep  wa> 
ter.  No  human  power  could  enable  a  man  to  swim  back  to  the 
rocks,  once  to  leeward  of  them,  in  the  face  of  such  seas>  and  so  heavy 
a  blow ;  and  the  miserable  wretches  disappeared  in  succession,  aa 
their  strength  became  exhausted,  in  the  depths  of  the  gulf. 

Not  a  word  had  been  uttered  while  this  terrific  scene  was  in  the 
coiurse  of  occurrence ;  not  a  word  was  uttered  for  sometime  after- 
ward. Gleams  of  grim  satis&ction  had  been  seen  on  the  counten- 
ances of  the  boatswam  and  his  associates,  when  the  success  of  their 
nefarious  prefect  was  first  assured ;  but  they  soon  disappeared  ia 
looks  of  horror  as  they  witnessed  the  struggles  of  the  drowning  men. 
Nevertheless,  human  selfishness  was  strong  within  them  al^  and  none 
there  was  so  ignorant  as  not  to  perceive  how  much  better  were  the 
chances  of  the  yawl  now  than  it  had  been  on  quittmg  the  wreck. 


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OS,  THE  ISLETS  OF  THE  GULF.  83 

The  weight  of  a  large  ox  had  been  taken  from  it,  counting  that  of  all 
the  eight  men  drowned;  and  as  for  the  water  shipped,  it  was  soon 
baled  back  again  into  the  sea.  Not  only,  therefore,  was  the  yawl  in  a 
better  condition  to  resist  the  wares,  but  it  sailed  materially  faster 
than  it  had  done  before.  Ten  persons  still  remained  in  it,  howcTer, 
which  brought  rt  down  in  the  water  below  its  proper  load-line ;  and 
the  speed  of  a  craft  so  small  was  necessarily  a  good  deal  lessened  bv 
the  least  deviation  from  its  best  sailing  or  rowing  trim.  But  Spike  s 
prefects  were  not  yet  completed* 

All  this  time  the  man-of-war's  cutter  had  been  rushing  as  madly 
through  the  breakers,  in  chase,  as  the  yawl  had  done  in  the  attempt 
to  escape.  Mulford  was,  in  fact,  on  board  it ;  and  his  now  fast  friend, 
Wallace,  was  in  command.  The  latter  wished  to  seise  a  traitor,  the 
former  to  save  the  aunt  of  his  weeping  bride.  Both  believed  that 
they  might  follow  wherever  Spike  dared  to  lead.  This  reasoning  was 
more  bold  than  judicious,  notwithstanding,  since  the  cutter  was  much 
larger,  and  drew  twice  as  much  water  as  the  yawl.  On  it  came,  ne« 
vertheless,  foring  much  better  in  the  white  water  than  the  little  craft 
it  pursued,  but  necessarily  running  a  much  more  considerable  risk  of 
hittii^  the  coral,  over  which  it  was  glancing  almost  as  swiftly  as  the 
waves  themselves ;  stOl  it  had  thus  far  escaped— and  little  did  any  in 
it  think  of  the  dan^r.  This  cutter  pulled  tea  oars,  was  an  excellent 
sear-boat,  had  four  armed  marines  in  it,  in  addition  to  its  crew,  but 
carried  all  through  the  breakers,  scarcely  receiving  a  drop  of  water 
on  board,  on  account  of  the  height  of  its  wash-boards,  and  the  gene- 
ral qualities  of  the  crafL  It  may  be  well  to  add  here,  that  the 
Poughkeepsie  had  shaken  out  her  reefs,  and  was  betraying  the  im- 
patience of  Capt  Mull  to  make  sail  in  chase,  by  firing  signal  guns 
to  his  boats  to  bear  a  hand  and  return.  These  signals  the  three  l^ts 
under  their  oars  were  endeavouring  to  obey,  but  Wallace  had  got  so 
for  to  leeward  as  now  to  render  the  course  oe  was  pursuing  the  wisest 

Mrs.  Budd  and  Biddy  had  seen  the  struggle  in  which  the  Sefior 
liontefalderon  bad  been  lost,  in  a  sort  of  stupid  horror.  Both  had 
screamed,  as  was  their  wont,  thouffh  neither  probably  suspected  the 
truth.  But  the  fell  designs  of  Spike  extended  to  them  as  well  as  to 
thom  whom  he  had  already  destroyed.  Now  the  boat  was  in  deep 
water,  nmmng  idong  the  margin  of  the  reef,  the  waves  were  much 
iBcreased  in  magnttixle,  and  the  comb  of  the  sea  was  far  more  me- 
naciBg  to  the  boat  This  would  not  have  been  the  case  had  the 
rocks  formed  a  lee ;  but  they  did  not,  nmning  too  near  the  direction 
c€  the  trades  to  prevent  the  billows  that  got  up  a  mile  or  so  in  the 
offing,  (rmn  sendmg  their  swell  quite  home  to  the  reef.  It  was  this 
swell,  indeed,  which  caused  the  line  of  white  water  along  the  north- 
em  margin  of  the  coral,  washing  on  the  rocks  by  a  sort  of  lateral 
effort,  imd  breaking,  as  a  matter  of  course.  In  many  places  no  boat 
could  have  lived  to  pass  through  it 

Another  consuleratiea  influenced  Spike  to  persevere.  The  cutter 
had  been  overbaulmg  him,  hand  over  hand ;  but  since  the  yawl  waa 
refieved  of  the  weight  of  no  less  than  eight  men,  the  dirorence  in 
the  rate  of  sailing  was  manifestly  dimirdshsd.  The  man-of-war's 
boat  drew  nearer,  but  by  no  means  as  fast  as  it  had  previously  done. 
A  point  waa  now  reached  in  the  trim  of  the  yawl,  when  a  very  fow 
hundreds  in  weight  might  make  the  most  important  change  in  her 

o  2 


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84  CAPTAIN  spike; 

favour ;  and  this  change  the  captain  was  determined  to  produce.  By 
this  time  the  cutter  was  in  deep  water  as  well  as  himself  safe  through 
all  the  dangers  of  the  reef^  and  she  was  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
astern.  On  the  whole,  she  was  gaining,  though  so  slowly  as  to  require 
the  most  experienced  eye  to  ascertain  the  fact 

<' Madame  Budd,*'  said  Spike,  in  a  hypocritical  tone^  <<  we  are  in  great 
danger,  and  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  change  your  seat.  The  boat  is 
too  much  by  the  starn,  now  we've  got  into  deep  water,  and  your 
weight  amidships  would  be  a  great  relief  to  us.  Just  give  your  hand 
to  the  boatswain,  and  he  will  help  you  to  step  from  thwart  to  thwart, 
until  you  reach  the  right  place>  when  Biddy  shall  follow.** 

Now  Mrs.  Budd  had  witnessed  the  tremendous  struggle  in  which 
so  many  had  gone  overboard,  but  so  dull  was  she  of  apprehension, 
and  so  little  disposed  to  suspect  any  thing  one>half  so  monstrous  as 
the  truth,  that  she  did  not  hesitate  to  comply.  She  was  profoundly 
awed  by  the  horrors  of  the  scene  through  which  she  was  passing,  the 
raging  billows  of  the  gulf,  as  seen  from  so  small  a  craft,  producing  a 
deep  impression  on  her;  still  a  lingering  of  her  most  inveterate  affecta- 
tion was  to  be  found  in  her  air  and  language,  which  presented  a  strange 
medley  of  besetting  weakness,  and  strong,  natural,  womanly  affection. 

"  Certainly,  Capt.  Spike,"  she  answered,  rising.  "  A  craft  should 
never  go  astern,  and  I  am  quite  willing  to  ballast  the  boat.  We  have 
seen  such  terrible  accidents  to-day,  that  all  should  lend  their  aid  in 
endeavouring  to  get  under  way,  and  in  averdng  all  possible  hamper. 
Only  take  me  to  my  poor,  dear  Rosy,  Capt  Spike,  and  every  thing 
shall  be  forgotten  that  has  passed  between  us.  This  is  not  a  moment 
to  bear  malice ;  and  I  freely  pardon  you  all  and  every  thing.  The 
&te  of  our  unfortunate  friend  Mr.  Montefalderon  should  teach  us 
charity,  and  cause  us  to  prepare  for  untimely  ends." 

All  Uie  time  the  good  widow  was  making  this  speech,  which  she 
uttered  in  a  solemn  and  oracular  sort  of  manner,  she  was  moving 
slowly  toward  the  seat  the  men  had  prepared  for  her,  in  the  middle 
of  the  boat,  assisted  with  the  greatest  care  and  attention  by  the  boat- 
swain and  another  of  Spike's  confidants.  When  on  the  second  thwart 
from  aft,  and  about  to  take  her  seat,  the  boatswain  cast  a  look  behind 
him,  and  Spike  put  the  helm  down.  The  boat  luffed  and  lurched,  of 
course,  and  Mrs.  Budd  would  probably  have  gone  overboard  to  lee- 
ward, by  so  sudden  and  violent  a  change,  had  not  the  impetus  thus 
received  been  aided  by  the  arms  of  the  men  who  held  her  two  hands. 
The  plunge  she  made  into  the  water  was  deep,  for  she  was  a  woman 
of  great  weight  for  her  stature.  -  Still,  she  was  not  immediately  gotten 
rid  of.  Even  at  that  dread  instant,  it  is  probable  that  the  miserable 
woman  did  not  suspect  the  truth,  for  she  grasped  the  hand  of  the 
boatswain  with  the  tenacity  of  a  vice,  and,  thus  dragged  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  boiling  surges,  she  screamed  aloud  for  Spike  to  save  her. 
Of  all  who  had  yet  been  sacrificed  to  the  captain's  selfish  wish  to  save 
himself,  this  was  the  first  instance  in  which  any  had  been  heard  to 
utter  a  sound,  after  falling  into  the  sea.  The  appeal  shocked  even 
the  rude  beings  around  her,  and  Biddy  chiming  in  with  a  powerful 
appeal  to  <<  save  the  missus !  '*  added  to  the  piteous  nature  of  the  scene. 

**  Cast  off  her  hand,*'  said  Spike  reproachfully,  <<  she*ll  swamp  the 
boat  by  her  struggles — get  rid  of  her  at  once  I  Cut  her  fingers  off  if 
she  wont  let  go" 

The  instant  these  brutal  orders  were  given,  and  that  in  a  fierce, 

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OB,   THE  ISLETS  OP  THE  GULP.  85 

impatient  tone,  the  voice  of  Biddy  was  heard  no  more.  The  truth 
forced  itself  on  her  dull  imagination,  and  she  sat  a  witness  of  the  ter- 
rible scene,  in  mute  despair.  The  struggle  did  not  last  long.  The 
boatswain  drew  his  knife  across  the  wrist  of  the  hand  that  grasped 
his  own,  one  shriek  was  heard,  and  the  boat  plunged  into  tlie  trough 
of  a  sea,  leaving  the  form  of  poor  Mrs.  Budd  struggling  with  the  wave 
on  its  summit,  and  amid  the  foam  of  its  crest.  This  was  the  last  that 
was  ever  seen  of  the  unfortunate  relict. 

**  The  boat  has  gained  a  good  deal  by  that  last  discharge  of  cargo,*' 
said  Spike  to  the  boatswain,  a  minute  afler  they  had  gotten  rid  of  the 
struggling  woman — **  she  is  much  more  lively,  and  is  getting  nearer 
to  her  load-line.  If  we  can  brmg  her  to  tkat,  I  shall  have  no  fear  of 
the  man-of-war's  men ;  for  this  yawl  is  one  of  the  fastest  boats  that 
ever  floated.*' 

'<  A  very  little  now,  sir,  would  bring  us  to  our  true  trim." 

"  Ay,  we  must  get  rid  of  more  cargo.  Come,  good  woman,"  turn- 
ing to  Biddy,  with  whom  he  did  not  thmk  it  worth  his  while  to  use 
much  circumlocution,  ''your  turn  is  next  It's  the  maid's  duty  to 
follow  her  mistress." 

"  I  know'd  it  mtut  come,"  said  Biddy,  meekly.  "  If  there  was  no 
mercy  for  the  missus,  little  could  I  look  for.  But  ye  *11  not  take  the 
life  of  a  Christian  woman  without  giving  her  so  much  as  one  minute 
to  say  her  prayers  ?  " 

"  Ay,  pray  away,**  answered  Spike,  his  throat  becoming  dry  and 
husky ;  for,  strange  to  say,  the  submissive  quiet  of  the  Irish  woman, 
so  different  from  the  struggle  he  had  anticipated  with  her,  rendered 
him  more  reluctant  to  proceed  than  he  had  hitherto  been  in  all  ot 
that  terrible  day.  As  Biddy  kneeled  in  the  bottom  of  the  stern- 
sheets.  Spike  looked  behind  him,  for  the  double  purpose  of  escaping 
the  painful  spectacle  at  his  feet,  and  that  of  ascertaining  how  his  pur- 
suers came  on.  The  last  still  gained,  though  very  slowly,  and  doubts 
began  to  come  over  the  captain's  mind  whether  he  could  escape  such 
enemies  at  all.  He  was  too  deeply  committed,  however,  to  recede, 
and  it  was  most  desirable  to  get  rid  of  poor  Biddy,  if  it  were  for  no 
other  motive  than  to  shut  her  mouth.  Spike  even  fancied  that  some 
idea  of  what  had  passed  was  entertained  by  those  in  the  cutter. 
There  was  evidently  a  stir  in  that  boat,  and  two  forms  that  he  had 
no  difficulty,  now,  in  recognizing  as  those  of  Wallace  and  Mulford, 
were  standing  on  the  grating  in  the  eyes  oi  cutter,  or  forward  of  the 
foresail.  The  former  appeared  to  have  a  musket  in  his  hand,  and  the 
other  a  glass.  The  last  circumstance  admonished  him  that  all  tliat 
was  now  done  would  be  done  before  dangerous  witnesses.  It  was  too 
late  to  draw  back,  however,  and  the  captain  turned  to  look  for  the 
Irish  woman. 

Biddy  arose  from  her  knees,  just  as  Spike  withdrew  his  eyes  from 
his  pursuers.  The  boatswain  and  another  confidant  were  in  readiness 
to  cast  the  poor  creature  into  the  sea,  the  moment  their  leader  gave 
the  signal.  The  intended  victim  saw  and  understood  the  arrange- 
ment, and  she  spoke  earnestly  and  piteously  to  her  murderers. 

*'  It's  not  wanting  will  be  violence,"  said  Biddy,  in  a  quiet  tone,  but 
with  a  saddened  countenance.  '*  I  know  it 's  my  turn,  and  I  will  save 
yer  souls  from  a  part  of  the  burden  of  this  great  sin.  God,  and  His 
Divine  Son,  and  the  Blessed  Mother  of  Jesus  have  mercy  on  me  if  it 
be  wrong;  but  I  would  far  radder  jump  into  the  saa  widout  having 

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S6  CAPTAIN  spike; 

the  rude  hands  of  man  on  me,  than  have  the  dreadful  sight  of  the 
missus  done  over  ag'in.  It's  a  fearful  thing  is  wather^  and  sometimes 
we  have  too  little  of  it,  and  sometimes  more  than  we  want — ** 

*^  Bear  a  hand,  bear  a  hand,  good  woman,"  interrupted  the  boat^ 
swain,  impatiently.  ^  We  most  dear  the  boat  of  you,  and  the  sooner 
it  is  done  the  better  it  will  be  for  all  of  us." 

<<  Don't  grudge  a  poor  morthal  half-a-minute  of  life,  at  the  last 
moment,**  answered  Biddy.  <*  It's  not  long  that  I  '11  throuble  ye,  and 
so  no  more  need  be  said." 

The  poor  creature  then  got  on  the  quarter  of  the  boat,  without  any 
one's  touching  her ;  there  she  placed  herself  with  her  legs  outboardy 
while  she  sat  on  the  gunwale.  She  gave  one  moment  to  the  thought 
of  arranging  her  clothes  with  womanly  decency,  and  then  she  patMed 
to  gaze  with  a  fixed  eye,  and  pallid  cheek,  on  the  foaming  wake  that 
marked  the  rapid  course  of  the  boat  The  troughs  of  the  sea  seemed 
less  terrible  to  her  than  their  combing  crests,  and  she  waited  for  the 
boat  to  descend  into  the  next 

*<Ood  forgive  ye  all  this  deed,  as  I  do!"  said  Biddy,  earnestly, 
and  bending  her  person  forward,  she  fell,  as  it  might  be  <*  without 
hands,"  into  the  gulf  of  eternity.  Though  all  strained  their  eyes, 
none  of  the  men,  Jack  Tier  excepted,  ever  saw  more  of  Biddy  Nooo. 
Nor  did  Jack  see  much.  He  got  a  frightful  glimpse  of  an  arm, 
however^  on  the  summit  of  a  wave,  but  the  motion  of  the  boat  was  too 
swifl,  and  the  surface  of  the  ocean  too  troubled,  to  admit  of  aught  else. 

A  long  pause  succeeded  this  event  Biddy's  ouiet  submission  to  her 
fate  had  produced  more  impression  on  her  murderers  than  the  despe- 
rate, but  unavailing,  struggles  of  those  who  had  preceded  her.  Thus  it 
is  ever  with  men.  When  opposed,  the  demon  within  blinds  them  to 
consequences  as  well  as  to  their  duties ;  but,  unresisted,  the  silent  in- 
fluence of  the  image  of  God  makes  itself  felt,  and  a  better  spirit 
begins  to  prevail.  There  was  not  one  in  that  boat  who  did  not,  for  a 
brief  space,  wish  that  poor  Biddy  had  been  spared.  With  most  that 
feeling,  the  last  of  human  kindness  they  ever  knew,  lingered  until 
the  occurrence  of  the  dread  catastrophe  which,  so  shortly  after,  closed 
the  scene  of  this  state  of  being  on  their  eyes. 

<<  Jack  Tier,"  called  out  Spike,  some  ^ye  minutes  after  Biddy  was 
drowned,  but  not  until  another  observation  had  made  it  f^nly  apparent 
to  him  that  the  man-of-war's  men  still  continued  to  draw  nearer, 
being  now  not  more  than  fair  musket  shot  astern. 

**  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  answered  Jack,  coming  quietly  out  of  his  hole,  from 
forward  of  the  mast,  and  moving  aft  as  if  indifferent  to  the  danger,  by 
stepping  lightly  from  thwart  to  thwart,  until  be  reached  the  stern- 
sheets. 

**  It  is  your  turn,  little  Jack,"  said  Spike,  as  if  iu  a  sort  of  sorrow- 
fid  submission  to  a  necessity  that  knew  no  law,  <^  we  cannot  spare 
you  the  room." 

^  I  have  expected  this,  and  am  ready.  Let  me  have  my  own  way, 
and  I  will  cause  you  no  trouble.  Poor  Biddy  has  taught  me  how  to 
die.  Before  I  go,  however,  Stephen  Spike,  I  must  leave  you  this 
letter.  It  is  written  by  myself,  and  addressed  to  you.  When  I  am 
gone,  read  it,  and  think  well  of  what  it  contains.  And  now,  may  a 
merciful  God  pardon  the  sins  of  both,  through  love  for  his  Divine 
Son.  I  forgive  you,  Stephen ;  and  shouhl  you  live  to  escape  from 
those  who  are  now  bent  on  hunting  you  to  the  death,  let  this  day  cause 

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OB,  THE  laUfiTS  OF  THE  GULP.  87 

jfoa  DO  grief  on  my  account  Give  me  but  a  moment  of  time,  and  I 
wiU  cause  you  no  trouble.** 

Jack  now  stood  upon  the  seat  of  the  stern-sheets,  balancing  him* 
stlf  with  one  foot  on  the  stern  of  the  boat.  He  waited  until  the 
jawl  had  risen  to  the  summit  of  a  wave,  when  he  looked  eagerlj 
for  the  man-of-war's  cutter*  At  that  moment  she  was  lost  to  riew  in 
the  trough  of  the  sea.  Instead  of  springing  overboard,  as  all  ex- 
pected, he  asked  another  instant  of  delay.  The  yawl  sunk  into  the 
trough  itself,  and  rose  on  the  succeeding  billow.  Then  he  saw  the 
cutter,  and  Wallace  and  Mulfi>rd  standing  in  its  bows.  He  waved 
his  hat  to  them,  and  sprang  high  into  the  air,  with  the  intent  to  make 
himself  seen ;  when  he  came  down,  the  boat  had  shot  her  length  away 
from  the  place,  leaving  him  to  buffet  with  the  waves.  Jack  now 
managed  admirably,  swimming  lightly  and  easily,  but  keeping  his 
eyes  on  the  crests  of  the  waves,  wiUi  a  view  to  meet  the  cutter. 
Spike  now  saw  this  well  planned  project  to  avoid  death,  and  regretted 
his  own  r^nissness  in  not  making  sure  of  Jack.  Every  body  in  the 
yawl  was  eagerly  looking  after  the  form  of  Tier. 

''Tliere  he  is  on  the  comb  of  that  sea,  rolling  over  like  a  keg  I" 
cried  the  boatswain. 

**He'B  through  it,**  answered  Spike,  ^^and  swimmiog  with  great 
strength  and  coolness.** 

Several  of  the  men  started  up  involuntarily  and  simultaneously  to 
look,  hitting  their  shoulders  and  bodies  together.  Distrust  was  at  its 
roost  painfuJ  height ;  and  bull-dogs  do  not  spring  at  the  ox's  muzzle 
more  fiercely  than  those  six  men  throttled  each  other.  Oaths,  curses, 
and  appeals  for  help  succeeded,  each  man  endeavouring,  b  his  fren- 
zied efforts,  to  throw  all  the  others  overboard,  as  the  only  means  of 
saving  hiaisel&  Plunge  succeeded  plunge ;  and  when  that  combat  of 
demons  ended,  no  one  remained  of  tnero  all  but  the  boatswain.  Spike 
bad  taken  no  share  in  the  struggle,  boking  on  in  grim  satisfaction,  as 
the  Father  of  Lies  may  be  supposed  to  regard  all  human  strife,  hoping 
good  to  himself,  let  the  result  be  what  it  might  to  others.  Of  the 
five  men  who  thus  went  overboard  not  one  escaped.  Thev  drowned 
each  other  by  continuing  their  maddened  conflict  in  an  element  un- 
suited  to  their  natures. 

Not  so  with  Jack  Tier.  His  leap  had  been  seen,  and  a  dozen  eyes 
in  the  cutter  watched  for  his  person,  as  that  boat  came  foaming  down 
before  the  wind.  A  shout  of  *<  There  he  is  V*  from  MuHbrd  suc- 
ceeded ;  and  the  little  fellow  was  caught  bv  tlie  hair,  secured,  and 
then  hauled  into  the  boat  by  the  second  lieutenant  of  the  Pough- 
keepsie  and  our  young  mate. 

Others  in  the  cutter  had  noted  the  incident  of  the  hellish  flght. 
The  fact  was  communicated  to  Wallace,  and  Mulford^  said,  '*  That 
yawl  will  outsail  this  loaded  cutter,  with  only  two  men  in  it,** 

*'  Then  it  is  time  to  try  what  virtue  there  is  in  lead,"  answered 
Wallace.    **  Marines,  come  forward,  and  give  the  rascal  a  volley.** 

The  volley  was  fired :  one  ball  passed  through  the  head  of  the 
boatswain,  killinghim  dead  on  the  spot.  Another  went  through  the 
body  of  Spike.  The  captain  fell  in  the  stem-sheets,  and  the  boat  in- 
stantly broached  to. 

The  water  that  came  on  board  apprized  Spike  fully  of  the  state  in 
which  he  was  now  placed,  and,  by  a  desperate  effort,  he  clutched  the 
tiller,  and  got  the  yawl  again  before  the  wind.    This  could  not  last. 


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88 


MY   BIETH-DAY   DREAM. 


however.  Little  by  little  his  hand  relaxed^  until  his  hand  relinquisli- 
ed  its  grasp  altogether,  and  the  wounded  man  sunk  into  the  bottom 
of  the  stern*sheet8,  unable  to  raise  even  bis  head.  Again  the  boat 
broached-to.  Every  sea  now  sent  its  water  aboard,  and  the  yawl 
would  soon  have  filled,  had  not  the  cutter  come  glancing  down  past 
it,  and  rounding- to  under  its  lee,  secured  the  prize. 


MY    BIRTH-DAY    DREAM. 


BY  XDWAllD   KEKEALT,   LL.B. 


The  golden  Julian  mom  was  gleaming 
o*er  me, 
The  diamond  stars  were  waning  one 
by  one, 
When,  lo !  roethought  a  vision  rose  be- 
fore me, 
Two  maidens,  beauteous  as  the  rising 
sun. 
On  the  pale  brows  of  one  were  towers 
shining, 
A  glory  burst  like  Here*s  from  her 
eyes; 
But  round  the  other's  forehead  I  saw 
twining 
Laurels  and  roses  bright  as  brightest 
skies. 

Then,  quoth  the  first,  '<  My  name,  be- 
loved, is  Power : 
I  come  to  thee,  and  woo  thee  for  mine 
own ; 
Wealth,  grandeur,  titles^these  shall  be 
thy  dower. 
But  thou  must  seek,  court,  worship 
me  alone. 
The  marble  palace  glittering  in  its  glory. 
The  pomp,  the  power,  the  attributes 
of  kings, 
Thete  I  can  give  thee,  with  a  name  in 
story;— 
Canst  thou  for  these  put  forth  thine 
eagle  wings  V* 

Then,  quoth  the  second, '«  Pomp,  and 

power,  and  palace. 
And  royal  wealth  and  grandeur  are 

not  mine  ;  „^ ^ 

/  cannot  give  thee  garden,  bower,  or      Guide  "her,  oh,  guide  her  through  thy 


This  I  can  gire  thee,  on  thy  temples 
wreathing, 
Immorttd  honour,  glory  ne'er  to  end ; 
Renown,  unto  all  fiiture  tunes  bequeath- 
ing 
A  bright  example,  guiding  foe  and 
friend. 
A  shining  place  in  history — a  splendour 
Out-dazzling    kings  —  the    sunshine 
drowns  the  star — 
A  name  to  which  all  time  its  meed  shall 
render. 
Which  Change  can  ne*er  destroy,  nor 
Folly  mar." 

She  ceased,  and  I  was  left  alone  un- 
guided, 
A  little  cradled  child  to  choose  be- 
tween 
Power  and  Fame !— alas!  alas!  divided. 
Why  should  these  golden  goddesses 
be  seen?  "^ 

Why  should  not  Fame  and  Power,  like 
smiling  Graces, 
Wander  along  the  earth  to  woo  and 
win? 
Why  should  not  he  who  seeks  the  soft 
embraces 
Of  Power,  gain  them  but  by  aid  of 
Sin?" 

I  know  not — care  not.    Vii^n  Fame 
immortal. 
To  thee,  and  not  to  Power  I  yield 
my  soul ; 


chalice. 

Resplendent    with  -its   gems,    and 
crown  *d  with  wine. 
Titles  I  cannot  vaunt,   sway   cannot 
proffer, 
In  sooth,  what  I  can  give,  I  scarce 
can  name : 
Thy  bright  soul  seeks  not  gaud,  nor 
gaudy  coffer, — 
I  know  thee^ — know  it — what  thou 
lov'st  is  Fame. 


crystal  portal. 

Blazon  her  name  upon  thy  bannered 
What  care  I  for  the  lures  of  proud  do- 
minion t 

Dominion  is  of  earth,  and  scents  of 
crime ; 
Give  me,  sweet  Fame,  to  soar,  with 
heavenly  pinion 

Above  the  pcdtry  pride  of  earth  sub- 
lime. 


•  •<  It  very  rarely  happens,"  says  Machiavelli,  "  or  perhaps,  never  occurs,  that 
a  person  exalts  himself  from  a  humble  station  to  great  dignity  without  employing 
either  ybrctf  orfraudJ** — ReftecHom  on  Lwpy  lib.  ii.  cap.  13. 


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89 


GOVERNMENT  PLAN  FOR  THE  DEFENCE  OF  THE 
COUNTRY. 

BT    JAMK8    AUGUSTUS    ST.    JOHN, 
AUTUOB  OF  ^'  THB  MANNBRS,  BTO.»  OP  ANCIBNT  GBBBOB." 

Wb  are  the  only  people  in  the  ciTilised  world  who,  though  intent  on 
the  accnmulation  of  wealth,  neglect  all  precautions  for  its  defence.  We 
have  an  army  no  wav  proportioned  to  our  political  power,  or  the  extent  of 
our  dominions ;  and,  if  in  itself  our  navy  be  large,  it  is  so  widely  scat- 
tered oTer  the  surface  of  the  globe,  that  the  force  we  can  at  a  short  no- 
tice bring  to  hear  on  any  particular  point  is  much  less  considerable  than 
might  be  at  first  expected.  This  state  of  things  is  traceable  to  many 
causes,  of  which  the  principal  are,  our  jealous  attachment  to  freedom, 
and  unwillingness  to  be  taxed  for  the  support  of  great  military  establish- 
ments. But,  like  all  other  nations,  we  must  accommodate  our  practice  to 
the  necessities  of  the  times  in  which  we  live.  There  is  no  political  com- 
munity aiming  at  greatness,  or  ambitious  of  taking  a  lead  in  the  affairs  of 
the  world,  which  does  not  train  a  larger  number  of  its  citisens  to  the  use 
of  arms  than  we  have  ever  done.  The  United  States,  though  much  givoi, 
like  ourselves,  to  conuneroe  and  industry,  have  an  organized  and  disci- 
plined militia  of  nearly  one  million  of  men  ;  France  has  eight  hundred 
thousand  of  national  guards ;  Austria  has  likewise  her  militia ;  Prussia  her 
land-wehr ;  and  Russia  maintains  a  far  more  numerous,  though  less  com- 
pletely disciplined  domestic  force.  Great  Britain  alone,  though  standing 
foremost  in  the  career  of  dvilixation,  though  by  far  the  most  powerful, 
from  the  energy  of  her  population,  the  amount  cdT  her  wealth,  the  magni- 
tude and  number  of  her  colonies  and  dependencies,  is  content  to  rely  on 
the  undisciplined  valour  of  her  people  for  protection  and  security  at  home. 
Our  army,  including  the  troops  of  the  East  India  Company,  does  not  ex- 
ceed four  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men,  though  our  empire  is  now  the 
most  widely  spread  which  the  world  has  ever  seen ;  though  we  have 
belted  round  the  globe  with  settlements,  and  are  still  actively  engaged 
in  founding  new  colonies,  and  reducing  fresh  millions  to  obedience. 

In  reviewing  the  events  of  these  iimes,  history  will  r^ard  with  extreme 
surprise  the  extent  of  our  self-reliance,  inspired  though  it  be  by  the  tra- 
ditions of  victory  and  the  sentiment  of  indomitable  courage.  We  per- 
suade ourselves  that  no  enemy  will  be  )iardy  enough  to  make  a  descent 
on  these  islands,  and  attack  us  in  our  homes,  because  the  thing  has  never 
happened  since  the  conquest.  London,  indeed,  can  make  a  prouder  boast 
than  Sparta,  and  say,  that  for  eight  himdred  years  her  women  have  never 
beheld  the  smoke  of  an  enemy's  camp.  To  preserve  this  traditional  glory 
untambhed  is  obviously,  therefore,  one  of  our  chief  duties  as  English- 
men. To  say  that  we  have  for  so  many  centuries  been  placed  by  our 
virtues  beyond  the  reach  of  an  iusult  so  galling,  and  a  calamity  so  terri- 
ble as  invasion,  is  to  put  forward  the  strongest  of  all  arguments  for  using 
our  utmost  exertion  to  transmit  this  legacy  of  glory  untarnished  to  our 
children. 

For  some  time  past  the  journals  of  this  country,  as  well  as  those  of 
France,  and,  indeed,  of  most  other  states  in  Europe,  have  been  filled 


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90  GOVERNMENT    PLAN  FOB  THE 

with  disquisitions  on  the  practicability  of  disembarking  a  hostile  army  on 
the  coasts  of  Kent  or  Sussex,  and  marching  upon  and  sacking  London. 
The  French  press,  conducted  for  the  most  part  by  yoong  writers  of  more 
ardour  than  knowledge^  labours  to  give  currency  to  the  idea  that  there 
would  be  no  difficulty  whateiFer  in  the  enterprize.  It  confidently  anti- 
cipates the  defeat  of  our  fleets  at  sea,  the  almost  unopposed  debarkation 
of  the  French  army,  the  utter  root  or  destruction  of  the  few  troops  we 
could  oppose  to  the  invaders,  the  capture  and  plnnder  of  London,  and 
the  commission  of  all  those  crimes  and  excesses,  which  among  our 
neighbours  hare  always  been  regarded  as  the  best  fhiits  of  Tictory. 

Even  in  our  own  country  several  journalists  have  written  in  the  name 
spirit,  actuated,  no  doubt,  by  the  patriotic  deeire  to  rouse  the  nattcm 
^om  its  lethargy  by  showing  it  the  danger  in  its  wont  shape.  If  there 
has  been  some  exaggeration,  the  error  is  less  misduevons  than  unfound- 
ed confidence.  The  best  thing,  however,  is  to  state,  as  finr  as  possible, 
the  exact  truth,  and  neither  to  overrate  the  power  of  France,  nor  to  un« 
derrate  our  own.  Supposing  our  military  streogih  to  be  equal  to  oar 
popuktioo,  and  the  extent  cf  our  territories,  France  would  be  a  mere 
pigmy  in  comparison  with  us.  Her  population  does  not  exceed  thirty* 
five  millions,  while  our's  falls  Httle  short  of  two  hundred  railliona,  that  is 
to  say,  comprises  one-fifth  of  the  population  of  the  globe.  Bat  no  idea 
<^  our  military  strength  can  be  gathered  from  this  view  of  the  matter. 
Our  empire  is  scattered  in  patches  over  both  hemispfaeres,  divided  bj 
oceans,  and  impressed  in  different  places  with  a  difierent  character  by  the 
combined  influences  of  dimate,  race,  language,  and  religion.  Franoe  is 
one  compact  unity,  or  nearly  so,  for  all  she  possesses  external  to  her 
own  shores  is  of  comparatively  little  value,  and  would  inevitably  be  shorn 
away  by  the  first  stroke  of  the  sword  of  war.  Her  military  establish- 
ments, therefore,  lie  nearly  all  within  a  moderate  distance  of  the  capital, 
and  may  easily  be  wielded  by  the  central  government,  whether  for  oflen- 
sive  or  defensive  purposes.  And  what,  then,  is  the  real  force  of  France  ? 
It  has  omifidently  be^  stated  in  the  newspapers  that  it  amounts  to  three 
hundred  aad  fifty  tiuraaaad  men,  in  the  highest  state  of  discipline,  ani- 
mated by  the  wont  fiselings  of  rancour  and  hatred  against  this  country, 
and  inured  to  the  most  merciless  cruelty  in  the  wars  of  Africa.  This 
view  of  the  matter  may  suggest  erroneous  conclusions.  The  French 
army  actually  oonsists  of  about  three  hundred  and  twenty-five  thousand 
men,  of  which  from  110  to  120,000  are  required  for  the  pacification  and 
defence  of  Algeria.  Twenty  or  twenty-five  thousand  men  are  distributed 
through  the  other  French  colonies  in  Western  Africa,  the  Antilles,  and 
the  Pacific,  so  that  a  large  reduction  must  be  made  from  the  formidable 
round  numbers  wiUi  which  our  popular  spemilators  have  hitherto  dealt. 
Still  the  force  of  France  is  very  great,  and,  in  the  estimation  of  military 
men,  more  than  sufficient  to  invade  England  in  her  present  state  of  com- 
parative defenoelessness. 

Much  stress  has,  moreover,  been  very  properly  laid  on  the  character  of 
the  French  soldiers.  They  are  not  what  tl^  were  in  former  days,  the 
representatives  of  the  civilization  of  the  kingdom,  but  a  fierce,  immoral, 
reckless  horde,  approximating  more  nearly  to  savages  than  any  other 
troops  in  the  worldl  This  has  been  rendered  indubiud)le  by  the  history 
of  their  campaigns  in  Algeria,  where  they  have  been  guilty  of  more  and 
worse  crimes  against  humanity  than  any  other  army  whose  exploits  are 
on  reeonL     Burning  villages,  massacring  the  inhabitants,  shutting  men 


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DEPENOB  OF  THE  COUKTET.  91 

up  in  caTMy  and  roaslh^  them  there  dhre,  with  ereiy  other  exoese  which 
▼illiBj  can  conceive  and  bmtaltty  can  execute,  have  been  their  habitaal 
aeluerements.  And  yet  they  had  nothing  to  retaliate  on  the  Africani. 
Neith^  the  Kabylet,  nor  the  Araba,  nor  Uie  Moors  had  hamiliated  them 
at  Waterloo.  Abd^l-Kader  had  not  inarched  to  Paris,  or  transported 
Napoleon  to  St.  Helena,  and  kept  him  there  in  imprisonment  till  his 
des^  Conseqaently,  what  they  ha?e  done  in  Africa  anist  have  pro- 
ceeded from  the  natural  promptings  ci  their  character.  It  would  be  al- 
together diffsrent  in  England.  Theiy  would  here  hare  mudi  to  revenge, 
since  they  could  not  ftul  to  discover  at  every  step  trophies  snatched  from 
them  OB  the  field  of  battle,  bitter  mementos  of  defeat,  the  flags  of  Uieir 
ships  of  war,  magnificent  pieces  of  artillery,  and  statues  and  m<H»nnents 
ereoted  to  celebrate  victories  over  them.  In  our  public  records  they 
would  find  the  proofs  of  a  thousand  odier  £icts  and  circumstances  calcu- 
lated to  excite  their  fury.  What,  therefore,  the  weak  and  defenceless 
portion  of  the  population  of  this  empire  might  expect  to  meet  with  al 
their  hands,  can  scarcely  be  imagined  even  from  reflecting  on  the  myste- 
ries of  the  caves  of  Dara,  or  the  inlkmies  of  TahitL  Whatever  Am  most 
degraded  passions,  lost,  cupidity,  or  revenge,  could  conceive  or  perpe- 
tnUe^  wmrid  unquestionably  be  accempHshedU  On  this  point  there  can 
henoi 


The  Dohe  of  WeOington  is  said,  in  his  letter  to  Sir  John  Burgoyiie, 
to  have  demoostnUed  the  practicability  of  France's  landing  fifty  thou- 
sand men  on  the  eoast  of  Effland  in  less  than  a  week  afW  the  de- 
partmre  of  our  ambassador  from  Paris.  On  such  points,  his  Grace's 
anthority  is  the  greatest  that  could  be  adduced.  B«t  his  letter  is  not 
before  the  public,  and  the  extracts  which  have  fsund  their  wi^  to  the 
press,  should  probably  be  regarded  rather  as  a  weak  version  of  the 
Duke's  language  than  as  the  clear  and  powerful  words  he  has  actually 
employed.  At  least,  there  seems  good  reason  to  believe  that  the  tan 
force  of  his  expressions  is  not  to  be  gathered  from  anything  with  which 
the  public  have  yet  been  made  acquainted.  Not,  however,  to  insist 
on  this,  it  appears  to  be  generallv  admitted  that  France  has  now  at  her 
disposal  an  army  of  one  hundred  thousand  men  for  oflensive  purposes, 
and  that  she  possesses  the  means  of  transporting  nearly  half  that  force 
by  steam  from  her  own  shores  to  ours  in  the  course  of  a  single  night. 
An  officer  of  the  highest  rank,  who  visited  the  camp  at  Cowpiegne. 
and  carefully  examined  the  conditions  of  the  French  army,  confirms  the 
pofmlar  report  that  it  is  in  the  completest  possible  state  of  efficiency ; 
that  its  artillery  practice  is  most  exact  and  admirable,  that  it  is  familiar 
with  all  our  most  recent  improvmnents  in  gunnery,  and  that,  in  spite  of 
an  external  varnish  of  politeness,  the  spirit  by  whidi  it  is  universally 
pervaded  is  that  of  the  most  deadly  hatred  towards  this  country.  For 
a  kmg  time,  the  French  Government  has  been  moving  up  its  forces 
towards  the  north,  where  they  are  kept  in  formidable  masses,  almost 
wi^in  sight  as  it  were  of  the  shores  of  England,  at  Cherbourg,  St 
Malo,  Brest,  and  other  ports,  where  an  ample  supply  of  war  steamers 
is  in  constant  readiness  to  transport  them  wherever  their  services  may 
be  required. 

On  the  subject  of  the  steam  navies  of  France  and  England,  much  too 
little  information  is  popularly  possessed.  If  collected  together,  our 
steamera  would  no  doubt  suffice  to  defend  our  shores  from  the  attacks 
of  the  whole  world.     But  in  point  of  fi^t,  where  are  they  ?     Scattered 


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92  GOVERNMENT   PLAN   FOB  THE 

over  every  ocean  and  every  sea,  protecting  the  tracks  of  commerce,  or 
overawing  the  pirate  and  the  slaver.  Comparatively  few  are  retained 
at  home,  while  those  of  France  constructed  and  maintained  purely  for 
purposes  of  aggression,  are  kept  perpetually  within  call.  Among 
these,  there  are  sixteen  immense  steamers,  each  capable  of  serving  as 
transport  to  fifteen  hundred  soldiers  during  a  short  voyage.  Other 
and  smaller  war  steamers,  acting  as  the  satellites  of  these,  would  divide 
the  remainder  of  the  invading  army  between  them,  so  that  a  vast 
flotilla,  with  artillery,  horses,  and  men  on  board,  might  be  pushed  over 
in  twelve  hours  from  the  coast  of  France  to  our  own. 

When  Napoleon,  in  1 803,  meditated  the  invasion  of  Great  Britain, 
he  accustomed  his  cavalry  horses  to  exercises  which  would  enable  them 
to  dispense,  when  necessary,  with  flat-bottomed  boats.  They  were 
thrown  into  the  sea  and  taught  to  swim  to  the  beach.  Heavy  guns 
were  likewise  cast  overboard  with  ropes  attached,  and  afterwards  drawn 
ashore  by  men.  To  lure  away  our  fleet,  that  of  France  was  to  have 
been  dispatched  ostensibly  for  the  West  Indies,  with  orders  to  take  all 
our  colonies,  bum  the  towns,  and  commit  all  practicable  ravages  in  the 
interior  of  the  islands  ;  but  m  reality,  its  orders  were  to  double  about 
in  the  Atlantic,  and  return  to  the  channel,  in  order  to  facilitate  and  pro- 
tect the  passage  of  the  army.  Similar  manoeuvres  are  probably  now  in 
contemplation,  and  will  be  put  in  practice  should  our  negligence  or 
avarice  ever  enable  our  vindictive  neighbours  to  realise  their  dreams. 

Let  the  country  reflect  on  the  dilemma  in  which  we  should  be 
placed,  were  the  French,  immediately  on  the  breaking  out  of  a  war,  to 
imitate  the  policy  of  Napoleon.  Unable  to  reconcile  ourselves  to  the 
capture  or  destitution  of  the  Britbh  West  Indies,  and  not  being  certain 
of  the  destruction  of  the  enemy,  we  should  be  compelled  to  follow  it 
with  our  own  fleet  If  it  pursued  its  course  towards  the  Gulph  of 
Mexico,  we  might  possibly  come  up  with,  and  destroy  it  there ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  if  it  should  escape  our  observation  at  sea,  and  make 
its  appearance  off  our  coast  at  the  same  time  with  the  steamers ;  what 
would  be  the  situation  of  this  country?  To  abandon  our  colonies, 
would  be  dishonourable  enough,  but  in  the  endeavour  to  protect  them, 
to  expose  our  own  country  to  the  horrors  of  invasion,  would  be  some- 
thing infinitely  worse. 

At  the  period  to  which  I  have  referred  above,  England,  though  infi- 
nitely less  powerful  and  wealthy  than  it  is  now,  was  animated  by  an 
ardour  and  enthusiasm  which  we  might  possibly,  under  similar  circum- 
stances, display  again,  but  like  which,  there  is  nothing  existing  among 
us  at  present.  The  youth  of  the  kingdom  might  literally  be  said  to 
rush  to  arms.  At  the  beginning  of  the  year,  we  had  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  men,  before  the  end  of  it,  six  hundred  and  thirteen  thou- 
sand, of  whom  four  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  were  volunteers. 
Against  such  a  population.  Napoleon  clearly  perceived  that  nothing  was 
to  be  effected,  and  the  breaking  out  of  the  Austrian  war  opportundj 
relieved  him  from  the  necessity  he  would  soon  have  been  under,  of  re- 
linquishing his  design  of  invasion,  obviously  from  the  conviction  Uiat  it 
was  absurd  and  impossible.  As  it  was  events  covered  his  retreat,  and 
he  enjoyed  the  honour  of  having  projected  the  conquest  of  England,  as 
we  project  the  reduction  of  an  empire  in  a  dream. 

At  present  this  country  is  pervaded  by  a  very  different  spirit  Ever 
since  the  peace  we  have  sedulously  applied  ourselves  to  the  arts  of  com* 
merce  and  industry,  to  the  improvement  of  manufactures,  to  the  found- 


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DEFENCE  OF   THE   COUNTRY.  93 

ing  of  ooloDiesy  to  the  emancipation  of  trade,  and  to  the  amelioration  ge- 
nerally of  our  civil  and  political  institutions.  And  these  things  we, 
dooUiiess,  should  have  done ;  hut  there  are  other  things  which  we  should 
sot  have  left  undone^  and  among  these  must  he  reckoned  a  continuous 
application  and  study  of  the  arts  and  processes  of  war.  After  the  hard 
knons  we  had  received  from  experience,  we  ought  not  to  have  required 
to  he  taught  that  in  this  world  there  is  no  tranquillity  or  peace  for  man 
noless  under  the  shadow  of  the  sword,  and  that  there  is  and  should  he 
no  music  so  grateful  to  the  ear  of  a  civilized  man  as  the  roar  of  ar- 
tBlery  proclaiming  to  all  whom  it  may  concern  that  he  is  prepared  to 
d^iend  his  freedom  and  independence  at  the  hazard,  and,  if  need  he,  at 
the  sacrifice  of  his  life. 

But  war  having  heen  the  cause  to  us  of  much  cahmity,  of  an  immense 
national  deht,  and  of  great  private  sorrow  and  sufferiDg,  we  hastily  and 
credulously  adopted  the  belief  that  it  was  the  last  of  our  great  trials  as 
a  nadoD,  and  that  we  should  thenceforward  be  able  to  play  the  epicu- 
reans, and  indulge  in  all  the  fantastic  tricks  of  luxury  and  effeminacy. 
Were  sailors  to  reason  thus  during  a  calm,  they  would  most  assuredly 
never  be  prepared  to  meet  the  hurricane.  The  wise  course  is  to  enjoy 
peace  and  fine  weather  while  they  last,  but  never  to  be  lulled  into  forget- 
fulness  of  the  truth,  that  vicissitude  is  the  great  fundamental  law  of  nature, 
and  that  tempests  are  begotten  in  the  bosom  of  calm  and  peace,  as  well 
in  the  moral  as  in  the  physical  world.  For  want  of  reflecting  on  this, 
we  are  now  taken  by  surprise  at  the  first  mutterings  of  the  storm  in  the 
digtimrp  Happily,  however,  there  is  still  leisure  for  preparation ;  and 
happily,  too,  we  now  possess  ministers  who  are  fully  alive  to  the  danger^ 
and  resolved  to  take  every  necessary  step  towards  meeting  it  in  a  man- 
ner becoming  the  character  of  this  great  people,  whose  honour  for  the 
time  is  committed  to  their  keeping. 

I  desire  it  to  be  distinctly  understood,  that  in  what  I  am  about  to  say 
I  am  only  offering  my  own  opinion  respecting  the  plan  formed  by  minis- 
ters for  the  defence  of  the  country.  That  it  will  be  found  substantially 
correct,  however,  I  make  no  doubt ;  nor  can  it  prove  in  any  way  injurious 
that  the  press  should  anticipate  the  designs  of  government,  because  by 
developing  a  wise  and  moderate  scheme  of  policy,  it  must  inevitably,  to  a 
certain  extent,  predispose  the  country  to  receive  it  favourably  when  it 
shall  be  hereafter  announced  in  parliament  Meanwhile,  it  is  satisfactory 
to  believe,  what  is  unquestionably  true,  that  our  rulers  interpret  accu- 
rately the  signs  of  the  times,  and  comprehend  the  whole  extent  of  their 
duties  as  ministers  of  this  great  empire.  From  a  detached  passage  of 
the  Duke  of  Wellington's  letter,  it  might  be  inferred  that  Lord  John 
Rnssel  was  one  of  three  ministers  to  whom  His  Grace  had  made  his 
prudent  representations  in  vain.  But  this  is  not  the  case.  The 
pr^ent  cabinet  is  obviously  as  fully  alive  to  the  necessity  of  making  pre- 
parations to  meet  any  assault  from  without  as  His  Grace  himself  can  be, 
as  the  pnbUc  will  be  thoroughly  convinced,  when,  after  the  holidays,  the 
government  plan  comes  to  be  explained  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

It  is  reasonable  to  suppose,  that  when  ministers  took  this  important 
subject  into  consideration,  they  hesitated  long  before  they  could  deter- 
mine whether  it  would  be  most  desirable  to  make  a  large  addition  to  the 
regular  army,  or  to  organise  an  immense  militia,  or  to  adopt  the  middle 
course  of  relying  partly  on  the  soldiers  of  the  line  and  partly  on  what 
may  be  strictiy  denominated  a  domestic  force.  After  mature  delibera- 
tion, they  would  seem  to  have  given  the  preference  to  the  course  last 


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94  OOVERNHENT   PLAN   FOR  THE 

mentioiied.  For  tbk  vatrnj  eogent  reafooi  might  be  atngned.  The 
militia  b  a  conBthutional  force,  the  yery  nature  of  whidi  tends  to 
•trengthen  our  attachment  to  the  institiirtionf  of  the  country,  white  it 
gires  ufl  confidence  in  our  ability  to  defend  them.  According  to  the 
Aindamental  laws  of  this  realm,  erery  Engiiihman  should  not  only  be 
permitted  the  use  of  Mrms,  but  expected  to  understand  it;  that,  in  cases 
of  emergency,  he  may  be  able  to  enroll  himself  in  the  list  of  our  national 
defenders.  The  mere  soldier  too  frequently  learns  to  look  with  indiflcr- 
enee  on  the  land  of  his  birth,  from  which,  by  the  yidssitudes  of  war,  he 
is  often  kept  in  almost  perpetual  cstraagement.  By  passing  constantly 
from  place  to  place,  he  contracts  a  contempt  for  local  associations ;  and 
by  leading  the  better  part  of  his  life  abroad,  ceases  to  be  actuated  by  the 
sympathies  and  feelings  of  home.  The  camp  in  the  long  nm  comes, 
thereforci  to  be  regarded  as  hb  country,  and  his  fellow-soldiers  as  hia 
only  fellow-citisens. 

The  miUtia-man  lives  under  totally  different  influeneea.  He  is  only 
a  soldier  so  far  as  discipline  and  the  defence  of  the  hearth  and  the  altar 
are  oonoemed.  He  enlarges  his  conception  of  home,  without  weakening 
the  love  of  it  His  patriotism  is  not  coofmed  to  Lancashire,  or  Cumber- 
land, or  Kent,  but  expanding  with  his  experience,  includes  in  its  embrace 
our  whole  group  of  blands.  He  ceases  to  be  the  citizen  of  one  town  or 
county,  but  becomes  a  citizen  of  Great  Britain,  equally  devoted  to  the 
whole,  haying,  perhaps,  formed  for  himself  personal  friends  in  almost 
every  part  ^  it  This,  of  course  can  be  the  case  only  whai  the 
militia  b  so  far  organised  and  maintained  on  the  footing  of  a  r^nlar 
army,  that  it  merely  differs  from  it  in  never  being  called  upon  to  serve 
abroad.  In  ordinary  circumstances  the  militia  is  strictly  a  local  foro^ 
raised  in  a  dbtant  neighbourhood,  constituted  chiefly  oi  persons  wbe 
know  each  other,  and  are  often  knit  closely  together  by  the  ties  of  blood 
and  friendship.  Sucb  men  in  the  day  of  difficulty  woukl  fight  gallantly 
side  by  side,  knowiag,  as  they  must,  that  deftat  would  be  fistal,  not  merdy 
to  that  abstract  exbtence  called  the  state,  but  also  te  themselves,  thor 
wives  and  funilies,  and  all  their  hopes  and  proepects  in  thb  world. 

CoBsequently  no  service  oonld  possibly  be  more  popular  than  thai  of 
the  militia,  whoi  rendered  necessary  by  the  exigeociea  of  the  times ;  and 
these  oonsiderations,  there  b  erery  reason  to  believe,  will  induce  minsters 
immediately  to  organise  a  force  or  one  hnadred  and  forty  thousand  men, 
of  whom  one  hundred  thousand  will  be  raised  in  Great  Britain  and  Ibrtf 
thousand  in  Ireland.  Thb  may  jar  upon  the  ears  of  many  as  the  first 
note  of  approaching  war ;  bat  we  have  deoeived  ourselves  egrsgieusly  if 
we  have  been  led  to  imagine,  that  beoanse  there  has  been  a  protracted 
cessation  of  hostilities,  tl^refore  we  may  be  said  to  have  entend  on  the 
period  in  which  the  swords  of  mankind  are  to  be  converted  iote  plough- 
shares, and  their  spears  into  pmning^hooksb  No  sodi  period  of  halyeon 
calm  b  to  be  expected  m  omr  days.  Our  lot  has  been  east  in  the  iron 
age  of  the  world,  and  it  b  with  iron  that  we  meat  defend  ourselves  fhim 
the  mischiefs  with  which  we  are  menaced  by  the  unbridled  pawieoa  and 
profligate  princi|rfes  of  our  neighbonrs.. 

One  of  the  greatest  recommendations  of  a  militia  fsree  b  the  comp»- 
ratively  small  cost  at  which  it  may  be  kept  npu  Experience,  I  believe, 
has  shown  that  with  the  strictest  regara  to  eoenomy  a  soldier  cannot 
be  maintained  in  thb  country  at  a  smaller  oest  than  forty  pounds  ster- 
ling per  annum,  whereas  a  nulitia^man  may  be  sapperted  for  one-tenth 
of  Uiat  sum,  or  four  pounds  sterling  per  aannm,  I  mean  whea  he  b 


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BBFENCE  OF  THE  COUNTRT.  95 

required  te  do  duty  only  during  one  month  of  tlie  year.  At  the  first 
Until  It  might  seem  that  the  expense  ^ould  only  he  one-twetfth,  bnt 
when  we  consider  that  a  machine  once  pat  in  atotion  is  much  more 
easilY  and  cheaply  kept  going  perpetnaliy,  than  it  can  with  irregular 
breaks  and  intermptions  be  pat  in  actkm  occasionally^  we  shall  he  able 
to  account  to  onrsehres  £ofr  the  facts  of  a  caknlation  which,  at  first,  ap- 
pears nnsatisfictory.  Thas»  however,  it  is  evident  that  a  hundred 
thousand  militia-men  would  cost  the  eountry  no  more  than  ten  thou- 
sand troops  of  the  Hne,  while  in  case  of  invasion  we  might  reckon  on 
them  with  infinitely  greater  confidence,  the  discipline  of  a  militia 
being  quite  sufficient  to  teach  them  to  fidl  into  their  jdaoes  oil  the 
fidd  of  battle,  trusting  to  their  inherent  courage  to  enable  them  to 
stand  their  ground. 

Such  a  force  could,  moreover,  be  encamped  as  it  were  both  in  the 
interior  and  along  the  coast  in  every  county  in  the  kingdom.  There 
could  be  no  toud^iag  on  the  skon  anywhere  without  meeting  with  a 
military  population ;  and  if  to  the  usual  regiments  of  in&ntry  were 
added  a  corresponding  strength  of  cavaby  and  artillery,  every  mile  of 
our  sea«front  might  1^  regarded  as  impregnable.  The  effect,  more- 
over, of  these  exerdsee  on  the  humbler  clas^  would  be  in  all  respects 
beneficial.  They  would  bring  them  together,  teach  them  to  act  in 
eonccrt,  lead  to  the  cultivatioa  of  friemUv  feelings  among  neighbours, 
excite  their  appetite  for  knowledge,  ana  give  rise  among  them  to  a 
paoper  appreciation  of  foreigners  whidi  would  lead  generally  to  a 
rooted  repugnance  for  their  cluuracter  and  manners.  It  maj  be  all  very 
well  in  a  few  vagabond  philosophers  to  cultivate  oosmopobtan  tenden- 
ciesy  and  endeavour  to  break  down  the  limits  which  separate  the  seve- 
ral eommonities  of  the  earth ;  but  it  would  be  absurd  to  cultivate  the 
aame  philosophy  of  indiffarence  amon^  the  great  masses  of  the  popula- 
tion. Universal  empire  is  an  impracticable  chimera.  It  is  evidently 
the  destiny  of  the  numan  race,  and  very  fortunatdy,  as  their  happi- 
ness depends  on  it,  to  Hve  in  distinct  political  communities  as  long  as 
the  world  endures.  Thk,  jvoperiy  understood,  signifies  that  from 
time  to  time  there  must  inevitabh^  be  wars,  because  it  is  altogether 
impossible  that  the  interests  of  diferent  states  should  not  sometimes 
dash ;  and  if  this  be  the  case,  it  fi^ws  that,  according  to  the  irresist« 
iUe  laws  of  nature,  the  subjects  of  one  state  will  always  entertain  cer- 
tain prejudices  against  the  subjects  of  every  other,  and,  in  reality, 
shonld  do  so  to  emaUe  them  to  contend  manfully  when  the  hour  of 
strife  arrives. 

Whoever  has  lived  among  the  French  peasantry  must  be  thoroughly 
convinced  that  nothing  is  less  cosmopolitan  than  their  sttitiments. 
lliey  regard  with  unbounded  prejudice,  amounting  in  most  cases  to  a 
rooted  d^Uke,  the  inhabitants  of  all  the  surrounding  countries,  while, 
with  respect  to  the  English,  tfab  dislike  degenerates  into  a  rancorous 
and  unappeasable  hatrad.  If  we  were  constructing  an  universal 
Utofk  we  might  stipulate  for  the  eradication  of  these  feelings.  But 
as,  after  dl  our  speculations,  we  are  compelled  to  take  the  world  as  it 
stands,  our  wisest  course,  apparently,  is  to  make  the  best  of  our  actual 
situation  and  work  with  the  matenais  we  possess  till  it  shall  please 
Providence  to  supply  us  with  better.  Now,  by  the  organisation  of  a 
mifitia  we  should  draw  forth  and  give  a  propw  shape  and  tendency  to 
the  hostile  feelings  of  the  British  population  against  France.  Know- 
—  ^  the  cause  which  forced  them  firom  their  homes  and.  interfered  more 
y  wiUi  the  processes  of  industry  in  which  they  are  habitually  en- 


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96  GOVERNMENT  PLAN   FOR  THE 

gaged^  they  would  learn  to  regard  that  cause  with  a  proper  de^i^  of 
ayersion^  and^  in  case  of  any  attempt  at  invasion^  would  be  animated 
by  the  disposition  to  receive  the  enemy  as  he  deserved.  Popular 
songs^  originating  in  the  circumstances  of  the  honr^  would  spring  into 
existence  and  make  the  circuit  of  the  militia-barracks,  rousing  the 
warlike  propensity  and  strengtheninff  the  inherent  passion  of  human 
nature  for  steel.  This,  I  know,  is  a  doctrine  which  will  be  deprecated 
by  many.  But  it  is  the  doctrine  of  all  patriotic  nations,  it  is  the  doc- 
trine which  has  placed  us  foremost  in  the  rank  of  civilised  communities  ; 
which  has  given  us  a  prodigious  empire  in  Asia,  which  has  rendered 
us  m&sters  of  a  hundrea  colonies,  andf  bestowed  on  us  the  power,  if  we 
knew  how  to  exert  it  wisely,  to  regulate  the  destinies  of  the  world. 
When  we  reject  it,  therefore,  and  adopt  its  opposite,  farewell  to  our 
greatness!  We  may  be  very  benevolent,  very  philanthropic,  very 
cosmopolitan,  but  we  shall  be  subdued  and  enslaved  by  the  first  bar- 
barian who  has  the  courage  to  land  a  well-oi^nized  and  powerful 
army  on  our  shores,  and,  with  his  foot  on  our  necks,  shall  enjoy  ample 
leisure  to  reeret  that  we  ever  suffered  ourselves  to  be  turned  aside 
from  the  path  of  duty  by  a  frivolous,  vain,  and  maudlin  philosophy, 
engendered  by  the  firesides  of  dreamers,  and  fit  only  to  obtain  circula- 
tion among  anchorites  and  old  women. 

It  will  be  a  proud  day  for  England  when  she  beholds  one  hundred 
thousand  of  her  sons  drawn  out  in  battle  array  on  her  beloved  soil, 
with  arms  in  their  hands,  ready  to  protect  its  inviolability.  The  music 
of  such  a  host  will  be  sweet  to  the  ear  of  freedom,  sweet  to  the  ear  of 
peace,  sweet  to  the  ear  of  justice,  and  honour,  and  patriotism,  and 
whatever  else  is  venerable  in  this  world.  It  is  consequently  to  be 
hoped  that,  instead  of  throwing  impediments  in  the  way  of  govern- 
ment when  it  proceeds  to  develope  the  plans  which  it  has  formed  for 
the  protection  of  our  coasts  from  invasion,  the  whole  country  will  en- 
ter into  its  designs  with  enthusiasm  and  compel  parliament  at  once  to 
make  the  necessary  grants  for  our  national  defences.  Taxation,  in  it- 
self an  evil,  will,  in  these  circumstances,  be  the  greatest  of  blessings. 
To  secure  us  the  possession  of  what  we  have  we  must  consent  to  sacri- 
fice some  small  portion  of  it  in  creating  the  means  of  security.  Who- 
ever has  a  home  or  hearth  worth  defending,  whoever  has  a  beloved  fia- 
mily  or  dear  friends,  whoever  cherishes  an  attachment  for  our  old  he- 
reditary institutions,  for  the  fiuniliar  associations  of  town  or  country, 
for  our  literature,  for  our  religion,  will,  instead  of  obstructing  minis- 
ters in  the  execution  of  their  wise  plans,  rather  urge  upon  Parliament 
the  necessity  of  givine  them  a  wider  range  and  loftier  8cope>  and  be 
ready  to  make  all  needful  sacrifices  for  the  purpose. 

In  addition  to  the  ordinary  objections  against  organising  a  militia  in 
England,  a  fresh  set  of  arguments  may  be  anticipated  against  the 
carryine  out  of  the  same  plan  in  Ireland.  Persons  who  know  nothing 
of  the  Irish  character,  and  are  readier  to  consult  their  prejudices  than 
their  reason,  will,  probably,  contend  that  it  would  be  highly  perilous  to 
entrust  forty  thousand  Irishmen  with  arms,  more  especially  at  a  mo- 
ment like  the  present,  when,  as  they  conceive,  disaffection  reigns  pa- 
ramount through  the  island,  and  the  rage  for  the  repeal  of  the  Union  is 
unbounded.  It  will  do  honour  to  the  courage  and  sasacity  of  ministers 
if,  despising  these  vulgar  apprehensions,  they  determine,  as  I  trust  they 
will,  to  confide  as  frankly  m  the  people  of  Ireland  as  in  the  people 
of  this  country.  No  libel  can  be  more  injurious  or  unjust  than 
that  which  accuses  the  Irish  generally  of  disaffection.    That  they 


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DEFENCE  OP  THE  COUNTRY.  97 

are  iur  from  bebg  amtent  with  their  condition  I  admit,  and  they 
would  be  deaenring  of  little  respect  if  they  were.  Ireland  is  not 
in  a  atate  to  nourish  contentment ;  for  to  giro  existence  to  this  feeling^ 
we  muat  greatly  ameUorate  the  condition  of  the  people,  or,  which  will 
aaawer  the  purpose  still  better,  must  enable  them  to  perform  this  great 
duty  themselyea.  But  between  the  absence  of  social  contentment  and 
political  disa^ection  there  is  a  wide  interral. 

Besides,  cimsidering  the  materials  of  the  Irish  character,  it  would  be 
perfectly  reasonable  to  contend  that,  even  if  disaffection  did  exten- 
STely  prevail  to  raise  a  large  body  of  militia  in  Ireland,  and  to  arm, 
eqoip»  and  discipline  it,  would  be  one  of  the  readiest  means  that  could 
be  devised  of  dissipating  that  feeling.  The  Irish  are  a  religious  people, 
who  sincerely  believe  in  the  sanctity  of  oaths.  Havine  sworn  alle- 
giance, therefore,  to  the  crown,  they  would  feel  themselves  to  be  re- 
moved, by  the  very  act,  out  of  the  catagory  of  disajfectiooy  and  bound 
rather  to  assist  the  law  in  eradicating  it.  That  in  case  of  invasion  they 
would  favour  the  enemy,  is  what  no  man  in  his  senses  believes.  The 
threat  was  a  sort  of  rhetorical  dap-trap  in  the  mouth  of  Mr.  O'Con- 
neU,  and  many  of  his  unfortunate  imitators  occasionally  venture  to 
repeat  it,  but  it  is  obvious  that  while  doing  so  thev  are  haunted  by  the 
oonscioasness  that  they  are  playing  with  two  edged  tools,  and  that  they 
run  quite  as  much  risk  of  wounding  themselves,  as  of  inflicting  injury 
on  Great  Britain ;  in  fact,  they  know  very  well  that  the  Irish  would 
do  no  such  thing.  Ireland  and  England  are,  in  this  respect,  like  man 
and  wife;  they  may  quarrel  between  themselves,  and  bandy  back- 
waids  and  forwards  innumerable  menaces  and  recriminations,  but  the 
invader  who  should  step  in  between  them  in  the  very  worst  paroxysm  of 
their  domestic  resentments,  would  be  apt  to  meet  with  a  reception 
which  would  scarcely  encourage  him  to  repeat  the  experiment.  The 
Irish  are  sfunewhat  fond  of  noise,  and  take  a  sort  of  malicious  pleasure 
in  abusing  the  Saxons,  but  when  circumstances  have  placed  them  side 
by  side  on  the  fidd  of  battle,  they  have  never  been  behind  the  bravest 
m  those  Saxons  in  upholding  the  honour  of  old  England,  and  bearing 
her  flaff  through  blood  and  danger  to  conquest  or  victory.  I  should 
like  to  Know^^ere  the  Irish  ever  turned  tau,  where  or  when  they  de- 
aoted  their  colours,  or  deserved  the  name  of  traitors  and  cowards.  I 
ahoold  be  v^  sorry,  in  the  wildest  districts  of  Tipperar^,  to  make  such 
a  charge.  The  truth  is,  that  the  Irish  know  we  are  umted  together  by 
destiny,  and,  in  spite  of  all  the  declamations  of  their  mob  orators,  they 
lore  us,  because  we  have  fought  with  them,  because  they  have  shared 
the  dai^ers  of  our  campaigns,  because  they  partake  of  the  glory  of  our 
conquests*  and  of  all  the  prestige  which  bdongs  to  imperial  sway. 
dive  tbem  arms,  therefore,  and  they  will  not  dishonour  tnem.  Your 
musket  will  be  as  safe  in  die  Irish  novel  as  in  the  Castle  of  Dublin  or 
in  the  Tower,  when  it  is  guarded  by  the  sanctity  of  an  oath,  and  by 
tiiat  military  enthusiasm  with  which  no  men  are  morf  deeply  imbued 
than  our  flourishers  of  shellalahs  over  the  water. 

In  addition  to  the  hundred  and  forty  thousand  militia  which  minis- 
ters should  immediately  oi^anise,  a  small  addition  to  the  regular  army, 
say  ten  thousand  men,  will  be  absolutely  necessary,  partly  for  the  for-» 
mation  of  artillery  corps,  and  partly  for  the  strengthening  of  the 
cavalry.  Experience  may  now  be  said  to  have  demonstrated  that  the 
possession  of  a  powerful  artillerv  invests  even  a  small  state  with 
strength.    It  was  this  that  gave  tne  Sikhs  their  renown  in  Asia,  and 

vol..   XXIIT.  H 


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98  GOVEENMBNT  PLAN  FOB  TH« 

rendered  tbem  formidable  antagonists  even  to  as.  The  same  obsenra- 
tion  may  be  applied  to  the  petty  Mahratta  state  of  Gwalior*  Of  what 
enormous  advantage^  therefore^  would  not  such  a  force  be  in  the  hands 
of  a  people  like  the  English  ?  As  it  is^  we  are  merely  weak  because 
we  are  negligent.  We  possess  more  resources^  more  materials  of  power^ 
more  means  of  conquest  and  self-aggrandisement,  than  any  other 
people  in  the  world.  But  we  make  no  account  of  them,  ana  are  so 
obstinate  in  our  remissness,  that  we  may  almost  be  said  to  invite  the 
FVench,  or  any  other  half-barbarous  people,  to  make  a  descent  upon 
our  coasts  for  plunder.  lenorant  as  they  are  of  foreign  countries,  they 
know  very  well  they  would  find  a  golden  harvest  here,  which  woald 
tempt  whole  swarms  of  half-naked  vagabonds  to  slip  out  of  their 
wooden  shoes,  and  skip  over  to  England,  in  the  hope  of  clothing  them** 
selves,  and  living  respectably  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  at  our  ex- 
pense. 

Why,  therefore,  are  we  insensible  to  the  danger  we  incur  F  The 
Roman  empire  was  rendered  accessible  to  the  barbarians  of  the  north 
only  through  the  sloth  and  inactivity  of  the  provinces.  People  then, 
as  now,  would  think  of  nothing  but  amassing  wealth  and  addicting 
themselves  to  luxury  and  pleasure,  and  the  empire  abounded  with 
pigmy  sophists  who  defendea  their  licentiousness  in  their  declamations 
against  war.  Confounding  debauchery  with  humanity,  they  pretended 
it  was  better  to  revel  withm  the  walls  of  towns,  than  bear  arms  amid 
the  snows  and  swamps  of  the  Sutler.  They,  therefore,  incessantly 
laboured  to  corrupt  the  youth,  by  drawing  feaiful  pictures  of  the  hor- 
rors of  war.  Mars  and  Bellona  were  thrust  from  the  temples  of  Rome, 
and  a  dastardly  spawn  of  epicurean  divinities  installed  in  their  places. 
We  have  entered  upon  the  same  career ;  have  paralysed  the  energies 
of  government  and  parliament  by  an  odious  outcry  about  economy  and 
peace,  as  though  there  could  exist  a  doubt  in  the  mind  of  any  man 
that  the  only  way  to  ward  off  hostilities  is  to  be  always  prepared^ to 
enter  upon  them  with  vigour  at  the  call  of  our  country. 

It  is  not  pusillanimity  but  prudence  that  counsels  attention  at  the 
present  moment  to  our  national  defences.  Properly  prepared  and 
armed,  we  could  easily  defend  these  islands  against  the  whole  world,  and, 
if  need  were,  conduct  retaliatory  expeditions  against  every  capital  of 
Europe  in  succession,  and  more  especially  storm  Paris,  and  give  the 
French  one  lesson  more  in  the  process  of  national  humiliation.  But 
if  we  persist  in  the  neglect  of  the  most  obvious  duties,  what  can  pos- 
sibly come  of  it  but  disaster  ?  The  government  is  manfully  doing  its 
part.  In  addition  to  the  thirty  thousand  troops  we  possess  scattered 
over  England  and  Wales,  fifteen  thousand  pensioners  have  been  organ- 
ised, together  with  nine  or  ten  thousand  dockyard  labourers.  But 
this  is  not  enough.  Besides  these  and  the  militia,  we  must  create  a 
powerful  artille^  force,  and  greatly  augment  the  strength  of  our  navy, 
especially  with  steamers  of  large  calibre,  capable  of  playing  a  promi- 
nent part  in  the  next  struggle  that  ensues. 

Other  precautions  must  likewise  be  taken,  rendered  necessary  by  the 
peculiar  circumstances  of  the  age.  In  some  sense  we  have  ceased  to  be 
islanders,  the  channel  having,  as  it  were,  been  filled  up  by  steam«  Our 
coasts,  therefore,  are  little  less  accessible  than  the  frontier  of  a  continental 
country,  so  thatthe  necessity  of  throwing  up  fortifications  on  certain  points 
has  become  unquestionable.  Much  in  this  way  has  already  been  done* 
Sheerness,  Dover,  Portsmouth,  Plymouth,  are  defended  by  formidable 
batteries,  and  orders  have  just  been  issued  for  strengthening  all  those 


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DBFEKCB  OF   THE   COUNTRT.  99 

wiorks.  But  the  system  must  be  extended.  There  are  other  large 
towns  and  cities  on  the  shore  which  cannot  with  prudence  be  left 
naked^  to  excite  the  cupidity  of  a  hungry  enemy,  prorerbially  addicted 
to  plunder,  as  well  as  to  eyery  other  excess  of  vice,  cruelty,  and  bru- 
tahty.  Whateyer  sums,  therefore,  ministers  may  expend  in  judicious 
fivrtifications,— and  it  is  to  be  hoped  they  will  not  m  this  respect  be 
mring, — parliament  should  grant  with  alacrity,  while  the  public 
should  be  ready  to  applaud  the  grant.  We  must  be  possessea  by  a 
feeling  of  security  at  home,  while  we  are  engaged  in  deyeloping  our 
design  of  coloniging  and  dyilixing  the  world. 

One  point,  howeyer,  it  seems  necessary  to  insist  upon  now.  If 
goyemment  take  the  steps  which  it  may  at  this  moment  be  fairly  pre- 
sumed to  meditate,  no  attempt  at  inyasion  will  be  made ;  ana  then 
certain  economists  will  inquire  into  the  utility  of  our  preparations, 
ridicule  our  fears,  and  triumphantly  argue  that  there  was  no  necessity 
whateyer  for  apprehension  or  expenditure.  But  it  is  to  preyent,  not 
to  court  inyasion  that  we  desire  to  see  a  militia  organised,  our  nayy 
augmented,  and  our  coasts  fortified.  We  are  not  anxious  to  behold 
the  enemy  amongst  us,  we  would  much  rather  he  should  stay  at  home, 
audit  is  predsely  in  order  to  keep  him  there  that  we  should  apply 
ourselyes  diligentW  to  the  strengthening  and  multiplying  of  our  na- 
tional defences.  The  sums  of  money  will  not  be  ill-spent  which  may 
pteserye  us  from  the  calamities  of  war.  Economy  is  eood,  but  that  is 
the  wisest  economy  which  sayes  us  ^m  the  waste  of  millions  by  the 
expenditure  of  a  row  hundred  thousand  pounds.  Supposing  the  issue 
to  be  eyar  so  fortunate,  supposing  we  utterly  annihilated  the  inyading 
army,  supposine  we  captured  the  fleets,  seized  upon  the  colonies,  and 
destroyea  utteny  the  commerce  of  France,  as  in  all  likelihood  we 
diGuld,  let  the  economists  consider  at  what  prodigious  cost  we  should 
effect  all  this,  and  take  likewise  into  the  account  that,  ^  a  moderate 
expenditure  now  we  may  escape  that  prodigal  waste  of  the  national 
treasures. 

•  It  is  upon  these  yiews  and  principles  Uiat  the  whole  system  of  Lord 
Palmovton's  foreien  policy  nas  been  based.  Instead  of  beins  as 
superficial  persons  haye  supposed,  a  warlike  minister,  his  lordship  is 
the  most  padiic  of  all  statesmen ;  but,  thoroughly  understanding  hu- 
man nature  as  he  does,  he  neyer  dreams  of  fMresenring  the  tranquillity 
oCthe  world  by  exposing  the  wealth  and  possessions  m  this  empire  as  a 
bait  to  excite  the  ambition  and  cupidity  of  our  neighbours.  He  has 
caused  to  be  felt  throughout  Christendom  the  just  influence  of  Great 
Britain,  but,  together  with  his  colleagues,  has  hitherto  &iled  to  excite 
IB  the  people  of  this  country  a  proper  consciousness  of  their  own  weak- 
ness. What  yiews  he  takes  of  our  [nresent  position  we  shall  soon  learn, 
and  when  he  has  deliyered  his  opinion  in  Parliament  the  country  will 
be  in  possession  of  all  that  human  prudence  and  forethought  can  sug- 
gest. Meanwhile  it  is  infinitely  satis&ctory  to  obsenre  that  public 
opinion  is  gradually  adjusting  itself  to  square  with  Lord  Palmerston's 
p^cy.  Bash  and  ignorant  persons  prompted  by  yanity,  or  under  the 
influence  of  still  worse  motiyes,  laboured  incessantly  a  short  time  aco 
to  excite  an  uniyersal  prejudice  against  his  yiews  and  character.  The 
period  of  that  delusion  is  past.  We  haye  now  made  the  discoyery 
that  our  interests  as  a  nation  could  be  in  no  safer  hands ;  and,  reasoning 
from  the  past  to  the  future,  it  wil],  in  my  opinion,  be  our  wisest  course 
to  place  tne  fullest  confidence  in  his  wisaom  and  genius. 

it  is  universally  admitted,  at  least  here  in  Great  Britain,  that  his 

H  2 


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100  GOVERNMENT   PLAN  FOB  THE 

ijrace  the  Duke  of  Wellington  is,  in  whatever  relates  to  military  af- 
fairs, the  highest  authority  to  whom  we  could  appeal.  The  country 
is  already  in  possession  of  his  opinion.  He  has  stated,  in  language 
the  most  emphatic  and  solemn  that  could  be  employed  by  man,  that 
our  condition  at  this  moment  is  unsafe,  that  an  invasion  would  be 
practicable,  and  that  an  enemy's  army  might  even  reach  and  sack 
the  capital.  This  is  the  opinion  of  the  greatest  military  commander  now- 
living.  Arguing  from  all  the  antecedents  of  Lord  Palmerston's  life, 
carefully  considering  his  views  and  sentiments,  and  comparing  and 
examinmg  his  speeches  and  his  policy,  I  think  I  am  fully  justified  in 
concluding  that  his  judgment  entirely  coincides  with  that  of  his  Grace. 
We  have,  therefore,  the  greatest  of  contemporary  statesmen  agreeing 
with  the  greatest  general  in  recommending  us  to  attend  to  the  de- 
fences of  the  empire.  It  cannot  surely  be,  Uiat  any  weight  will,  after 
this,  be  attached  to  the  advice  of  those  who  inconsiderately  maintain 
that  great  reductions  are  practicable  in  the  army,  navy,  and  ordnance* 
Every  man  must  have  read  with  pain  the  declaration  made  the  other 
day,  at  Stockport,  by  Mr.  Cobden,  to  this  effect.  He  did  not,  as 
seems  to  be  generally  supposed,  go  the  length  of  contending,  that  we 
may  dispense  at  once  with  all  our  forces  by  sea  and  land,  but  suggest- 
ed^ that  out  of  the  seventeen  millions  which  we  now  appropriate  to  the 
defences  of  the  empire,  a  considerable  portion  might  be  saved. 

As  Mr.  Cobden's  opinion  was  received  with  applause  by  his  old 
constituents,  and  is  far  too  prevalent  among  the  people  generally,  it 
may,  perhaps,  be  worth  white  to  point  out  the  untrustworthy  founda- 
tion on  which  it  is  based.  During  his  tour  on  the  continent,  he  chiefly 
associated  with  commercial  men  and  political  economists,  persons 
who,  in  all  countries,  are  addicted  to  peace,  and  inclined  to  attribute 
to  others  their  own  unwarlike  predilections.  It  may  be  possible,  also^ 
to  detect  in  Mr.  Cobden's  declarations,  the  vanity  of  putting  forward 
bold  views,  which  he  may  suppose  to  be  in  advance  of  the  age.  Un- 
fortunately) however,  there  is  no  novelty  in  them.  Towards  the  de« 
dine  of  states  they  have  been  invariably  advanced  by  all  who  set  a 
higher  value  on  the  accumulation  of  wealth  to  preserving  the  integrity 
of  the  national  vhrtue  by  the  predecessors  of  our  politioftl  economists, 
by  sophisU  and  dedaimers,  by  all,  in  short,  wno  prefer  ease  and 
hucury  to  the  painful  and  laborious  exertion  of  energy. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

A  letter  on  the  subject  of  this  article  has  just  appeared  from  the 

E*n  of  Lord  Ellesmere,  pervaded  almost  throughout  by  the  true  old 
nglish  spirit.  I  say  cUmoa^  because  Uiere  is  one  passage  in  which 
his  lordship  advocates  a  course  which,  should  our  countnr  be  invaded^ 
I  most  earnestly  trust  we  shall  never  pursue.  Should  the  enemy, 
taking  us  by  surprise,  throw  a  force  of  nfty  thousand  men  into  Eng- 
land, his  lordship  thinks  that,  with  the  few  regular  troops  at  our  com- 
mand, we  ought  not  to  hazard  a  battle ;  and  that  if  the  French  were 
entering  London  at  one  end,  the  guards  should  march  out  at  the 
other.  The  advice  is  probably  ironical,  and  designed  to  rouse  us  to 
a  sense  of  our  danger.  But  if  the  event  to  which  he  thus  alludes 
should  ever  occur,  I  trust  the  enemy  will  never  be  allowed  to  see  the 
back  of  an  English  soldier.  Few  or  many,  it  will  be  the  duty  of  our 
troops  to  present  their  breasts  to  the  foe,  and  to  perish  to  a  man,  ra- 
ther than  suffer  the  capital  to  be  entered  unopposed. 


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DEFENCE  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  101 

On  nearly  all  other  points  it  affords  me  ffreat  latis&ction  to  find 
that  the  obserrations  I  have  ventured  to  make  are  supported  bj  the 
opinion  of  Lord  EUesmere.  He  may  possibly  be  led  by  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances to  take  at  times  a  too  sombre  view  of  our  condition.  But 
to  err  on  thb  side  is  far  better  than  to  run  into  the  opposite  extreme. 
We  ought  to  be  awakened,  however  rudely,  out  of  the  slumber  into 
which  we  have  fallen,  and  shall  hereafter  confess  that  we  owe  a  deep 
debt  of  gratitude  to  those  who  now  unite  together  for  the  purpose  of 
rousiDg  us.  His  lordship,  in  his  excellent  letter,  discusses  the  ques- 
tioD  whether  it  be  better  to  augment  Uie  regular  army,  or  to  organise 
a  militia  force.  The  demands  of  government  will  probably  be  limited 
by  the  disposition  of  parliament,  while  this  again  will  depend  very 
much  on  the  state  of  public  opinion.  If  the  nation  can  be  made 
lennble  of  its  danger,  if  men  of  station  and  influence  like  Lord  EUes- 
mere will  come  forward  in  time,  and  by  their  judicious  warnings  give 
an  fanpetufl  to  the  sentiment  of  apprehension ;  if  the  press  view  the 
matter  in  the  prcmer  light,  and  heartily  cooperate  in  accomplishing 
the  good  work,  whatever  is  wantmg  will  be  done ;  the  navy  will  be 
strengthened,  the  army  increased,  a  new  artillery  force  will  be  created, 
and  an  immense  body  of  militia  will  be  called  out.  The  question  of 
expense  may  be  easily  disposed  of  War  with  France,  sooner  or 
later,  is  inevitable,  invasion  is  highly  probable ;  and  should  it  take 
I^ace,  no  one  can  be  so  stupid  as  to  doubt  the  enormous  expenditure  of 
blood  and  treasure  which  it  would  occasion,  not  to  hint  at  anything 
worse.  By  being  armed  in  time,  we  may  escape  this.  It  is  no  matter 
of  speculation,  but  an  undoubted  fact,  that  we  possess  the  means  of 
defending  ourselves  agamst  the  whole  world,  provided  we  will  only 
make  up  our  minds  to  use  them.  No  one  denies  this ;  our  worst 
enemies  are  better  aware  of  it  than  ourselves.  They  would  never 
dream  of  assailing  us,  if  they  saw  us  on  our  guard.  They  merely 
hope  to  be  able  to  take  advantage  of  our  sloth  or  heedlessness,  to  land 
OD  our  shores  by  surprise,  while  we  are  thinking  of  money-making,  of 
railway  shares,  of  bills  and  discount,  of  invoices  and  ledgers.  They 
have  relt  how  heavy  our  hand  is  when  we  think  proper  to  use  it.  But 
coming  now  they  would  find  us  asleep,  and  might  easily  seize  and 
bind  us  in  fetters  which  we  could  not  speedily  shdce  off. 

Lord  EUesmere  seems  to  doubt  the  prudence  of  the  writer  in  the 
^  Mominff  Chronicle"  who  first  drew  attention  to  this  subject ;  but  X 
applaud  his  frankness,  and  think  the  countir  deeply  indebted  to 
mm  for  the  startling  disclosures  he  made.  We  are  much  too  apt 
to  oppose  a  sort  of  vis  inertice  to  the  exertions  of  Government  in  our 
bduil^  and  to  (aacy  that  all  is  well,  because,  immersed  in  other  pur- 
suits, we  do  not  perceive  the  dangers  which  are  visible  to  them.  Our 
attention  has  now  been  directed  to  the  peril  in  which  we  are  placed, 
and  if  we  persist  m  being  indifferent  to  it,  we  may  fancy  ourselves 
wise  and  magnanimous  if  we  please,  but  posterity  will  pass  a  very 
diflferent  judgment  on  our  proceedings,  and  be  apt  to  stigmatize  us  as 
a  base  and  slothful  race,  who  would  not  devote  a  smaJl  portion  of 
cor  wealth  to  preserve  our  country  from  Invasion,  our  wives  and 
dai^ters  from  violence,  and  ourselves  from  that  infamy  which  ever- 
lastingly din^  to  those  who  prefer  mere  worldly  considerations  to 
the  preservation  of  their  honour. 


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A  VISIT  TO  THE  "  HAUNT"  OP  A  POETESS. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OP  "  PADDIANA,"  ETC. 

I  HAVE  rather  a  leaniDg  to  old  times  and  customs^  in  spite  of  their 
inconveniences :  the  very  ruhs  *'  that  make  the  rough  road  long  "  are 
not  without  their  charm,  and  from  devouring  Uie  way  to  Gloucester 
bv  the  Great  Western  express  at  fifly  miles  an  hour,  I  take  very 
kmdly  to  nibbling  on  to  Ross  upon  the  Mazeppa,  at  the  rate  of  seven. 
And  the  comfort  is,  that  this  Mazeppa  is  little  likely  to  be  run  away 
with.  The  Hereford  Hetman  is  horsed  with  a  style  of  cattle  quite 
different  from  him  of  the  Ukraine^  —  is,  indeed,  altogether  a  slower 
coach,  as  well  as  far  more  respectable ;  but,  as  chatty  and  pleasant  a 
conveyance  as  any  one  would  desire  to  be  connected  with. 

«  On  we  dash  I— 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash," 

is  not  the  way  to  describe  his  progress  at  all ;  and,  if  the  word  <^  head- 
long "  be  used  with  reference  to  him,  it  must  be  understood  to  apply 
to  the  possible  proneness  of  the  leader. 

The  reader  at  once  convicts  me  of  a  fellow-feeling  for  slow  coaches, 
— and  I  admit  it.  I  love  the  gossip  of  the  road,  and  the  private  his- 
tory that  travels  about  in  parcels ;  trace  out  my  rural  Apicius  by  his 
London  oysters;  and  muse  over  '^ double-barrelled  dilettantyism ** 
over  a  hamper  of  pheasants.  I  watch,  not  obtrusively,  the  flirtations 
of  the  coachman, — his  imparted  and  received  confidences, — ^his  mys- 
teries with  the  turnpike-man  or  woman, — his  oracular  nods,  and  jerks, 
and  winks,  and  the  eloquence  of  his  elbow.  I  see  into  his  tricks,  too; 
his  passenger  set  down  short  of  the  town, — his  little  breast-pocket 
parcels  delivered  with  his  own  hand, — ^his  haggling  with  the  seedy 
ones,  and  his  basket  of  glass  with  a  hare's  fur  sticking  throush  the 
wicker.  He  is  best  without  a  guard ;  for  when  his  own  guar^  he  is 
off  his  guard,  and  you  see  deeper  through  the  millstone  of  his  Chester- 
field. Then,  his  judgment  of  character  is  a  thing  to  study.  His 
banter  is  irrespective  of  dress ;  chains,  and  breastpins,  flaming  waist- 
coats, and  flaunting  bonnets  have  no  weight  with  him.  His  eye  pene- 
trates to  the  gentleman  through  the  oldest  boat-cloak,  and  he  recog- 
nises respectability  under  a  sixpenny  cotton.    To  say  that, 

<^  The  beau  ideal  whioh  the  mind  sopposea, 
Is  one  who  dresses  in  the  dothes  of  Moses,** 

may  go  down  very  well  in  the  Minories ;  but  will  never  do  with  him* 
He  dreams  of  something  deeper  in  his  clothes  philosophy. 

"  Nice  day,  sir," — "  for  the  time  of  year, — very  nice  day."  "  A  little 
wet  wouldn't  do  us  no  harm." — "  We  wants  rain  very  bad  up  our  way.** 
(This  firom  a  farmer  who  must  throw  in  his  protest :  Dissentient,  be- 
cause a  fine  season  brings  good  crops,  and  good  crops  promise  no 
drawback,  so  he  practises  croaking  all  the  year,  to  be  perfect  on  rent- 
day.) 

How  should  we  ever  establish  our  little  casual  acquaintances  with- 
out an  atmosphere  ?  and  how  on  earth^-or  rather  on  moon — do  they 


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A  VISIT  TO  THE  HAUNT  OP  A  POETESS.  108 

manage  in  the  neighbouring  planet  ?  How  entb-d j  obstructed  thej 
mu8t  be  in  their  little  intercourse  by  having  all  nice  days^  a  fort- 
night long.  No  *'  growing  day  for  the  turnips, " — no  thinking  **  as  we 
shall  have  a  shower  "  long  after  it  has  begun, — no  "  roughish  day  for 
them  as  be  obliged  to  be  out  in  it^" — no  '*  what  dreadful  changeable 
weather,  sure-lyl  nothing  but  rain,  rain,  raini'* — no  ^'moistish,  ain't 
it  ?**  (when  we  are  quite  wet  through.)  Of  what  use  is  it  for  a  man 
in  the  moon  to  ^  look  out  for  squalls,"  or  *<  to  have  an  eye  to  wind- 
wu'd,"  or  to  **  keep  his  weather-eye  open,**  when  he  has  neither  wind 
nor  weather  (so  to  speak);  and  how  helpless  for  a  man  of  fashion  to 
have  no  clouds  to  look  up  to  when  he  meets  a  country  friend  in  a 
hinar  Pall  MaU. 

We  make  but  an  indifferent  start  of  it,  for  there  is  rather  a  defici- 
ency of  legs  amongst  the  team,  and  a  strong  disposition  to  keep  as 
many  as  possible  off  the  ground ;  and  the  road  into  the  city  might  be 
improved  with  a  little  corduroying.  We  stop  for  a  gossip  at  '<  The 
BeU,"  (slightly  altered  since  Tom  Jones  and  Partridge  ate  their  beef 
and  greens  in  the  bar  with  the  landlady,)  get  a  summit  to  the  moun- 
tain of  luggage,  and,  finding  it  is  **  a  nice  day,*'  from  another  passen- 
ger, bowl  on  to  the  Boothall. 

**  Here 's  a  young  'ooman  fbr  ye,  mister,**  observes  an  elderly  labour- 
ing man,  in  his  Sunday  dothes,  proffering  in  the  kindest  manner  a 
chubby  girl  and  her  box  to  the  coachman. 

"Gobg  far,  my  dear?" 

'<Kyou  please,  sir,  I'm  going  to  Mrs.  Jenkins's  of  the  Close.** 

«  Ay,  ay;  her 'II  tell  you  all  about  it." 

**  Well,  jump  up.     Nice  day,  ain't  it?     Here,  sit  in  the  middle." 

<*  You  *11  be  sure,  if  vou  please,  to  put  me  down  at  Mrs.  Jenkins's, 
at  Uie  Close,  by  Longhope,  you  know,  at  the  corner  of  the  lane. 
There  11  be  one  as  will  meet  me  there,  I  expect.  You  11  be  sure  not 
to  please  to  forget." 

*'  I  know.    You  live  at  Mrs.  Jenkins's  ?" 

^ I'm  in  a  situation  there.  Mother  lives  at  Painswick.  Father 
brought  me  to  Gloucester.  Mother  have  been  a'most  dead  with  the 
influenzy ;  was  obliged  to  have  the  doctor,  however,  for  above  a  fort- 
night ;  but  a's  better  now." 

Soh  I  she's  determined  not  to  be  lost  for  want  of  a  label.  She  has 
read  in  some  railway-bill,  ^*  Passengers  are  requested  to  have  their 
trunks  properly  directed,  as  the  company  cannot,  otherwise,  be  an- 
swerable," Urc, — an  admirable  bit  of  caution,  when  people's  trunks  are 
difficult  to  identify  aflter  a  smash ;  but  surdy  unnecessary  in  the  case 
of  a  living  young  woman,  knowing  the  road,  and  able  to  stop  the 
coachman  herself.  But  she  can't  trust  to  herself,  with  her  thoughts 
far  away  at  the  old  cottage  at  Painswick,—- or,  perhaps,  with  Bill. 
She  is,  no  doubt,  set  in  for  a  reverie. 

What  a  fine  old  street  is  that  down  by  the  Boothall,  in  spite  of  the 
modem  smug  brick-houses  thrusting  themselves  amongst  the  old 
stagers.  Poor  old  fellows  I  they  are  getting  rather  shakpr,  and  some  of 
them  seem  to  have  dropped  off  into  a  dose,  and  are  leamng  their  heads 
on  their  neighbours'  shoulders,  and  almost  dropping  their  chins  upon 
the  passengers.  I  can't  bear  the  thoughts  of  parting  with  them,  not- 
withstanding, or  to  think  of  their  crazy  insides  being  rummaged  by 
impertinent  commissioners,  and  their  poor  old  drains  bored  into,  and 


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104  A   VISIT  TO  THE 

poked  about;  and  themselveg,  perhapsy  sacrificed  to  some  sanitary 
humbug.  I  can*t,  unmoved^  look  at  die  wooden  old  feces  that  one 
knew  in  the  glorious  days  of  peashooters  and  post-chaises,  when  we 
saved  up  our  pocket-money  to  add  leaders  to  the  team ;  and  rattled 
down  amongst  them  after  the  drunken  postboys,  as  if  the  very  stones 
were  mad,  and  their  old  heads  shook  with  the  palsy.  I  can  identify 
the  old  doors  with  the  wondering  fkces  that  came  out  to  see  the  flags 
from  the  chaise-windows,  and  the  ribbons  in  the  postboys'  hats,  and 
doubting  whether  it  was  a  wedding  or  an  express.  Nay,  I  recognise 
the  very  window  where  sat  in  meUow  summer  radiance  the  fat,  red- 
faced  old  lady,  attracted  a  little  forward  bj  the  row,  and  who  received 
on  her  inflamed  features  such  a  shower  of  hard  marrow-fots  that  she 
yelled  with  rage  and  pain.  And  remember  well  how,  looking  from 
the  small  window  behind,  we  saw  her  excited  form  protruding  into  the 
street,  with  shaking  fists  and  cap  awry ;  furnishing  merriment  for  the 
whole  half-year,  and  giving  rise  to  the  most  anxious  wishes  that  we 
might  renew  the  acquaintance  at  the  next  trip.  And  who  that  saw 
him  can  ever  forget  the  well-mounted  gentleman  farmer, — surly  with 
excess  of  dignity, — ^rich,  no  question, — a  little  lord  in  his  village, — hit 
in  the  very  eyes,  and  bending  down  with  the  smart ;  then  ^lopmg 
furiously  after  the  chaise,  and  lashing  at  the  windows  till  his  horse, 
unable  to  face  the  punishment,  bolts  with  his  rider,  and  we  see  him 
tearing  up  the  street  at  full  speed,  in  spite  of  every  effort  to  pull  him 
up. 

And  associated  with  this  old  street  was  that  extraordinary  porter, 
— built  upon  the  most  conflicting  principles, — ^whose  legs,  without  their 
owner's  leave,  straddled,  like  Apollyon,  *'  across  the  whole  breadth  of 
the  way ;"  and  whose  eyes  were  of  such  peculiar  construction,  that, 
wishing  to  identify  a  parcel  on  the  ground,  he  was  obliged  to  raise 
his  face  towards  the  sky.  Such  a  fixture  was  this  fellow  for  thirty 
years  or  so,  that  one  can  hardly  believe  in  the  possibility  of  his  being 
extinct.  Coming  from  the  ends  of  this  earth,  this  man  never  fiiiled 
us ;  looking,  it  would  seem,  towards  the  roof  of  the  coach,  while  his 
eyes  were  rollbg  about  amongst  the  packages  at  his  feet. 

In  such  old  musings  we  come  out  upon  the  causeway,  and  see  a 
young  railway — offspring  of  the  Great  Western — just  started  on  his 
travels  towards  SouUi  Wales.  He  sets  out  bravely  enough,  like  many 
another  young  fellow ;  coming  over  the  flats  with  an  imposing  air  at 
first,  but  soon  sticking  fast  in  the  mud,  and  ending  in  a  long  score 
that  we  see  no  limit  to.  It  would  be  wise  in  his  parent  to  stop  him 
before  be  gets  into  further  mischief. 

We  stop  a  moment  at  the  turnpike. — 

**  Nice  day,  missis." 

"  Iss,  'tis." 

**  You  haven't  heard  no  more  o*  that  paasle,  have  ye?" 

"No." 

"Didn't  a  call?" 

"No." 

"  Never  said  nothing  to  me." 

"Well  to  be  sure." 

"Ah." 

"  Hum." 

"  WelL" 


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HAUNT  OF  A   POETESS.  105 

«<  A'  got  the  fish,  did  aV 

«Well.'' 
"Hum," 

^  Wish  ye  good  day>  missis." 
*'  Wish  ye  good  day,  sir." 

Then  on  by  the  great  square  red  house,  that  was  said  to  have  as 
many  windows  as  days  in  the  year;  and  presently  old  May  Hill  is 
before  us,  with  his  scalp  unshaved  as  of  yore.  The  legs  are  all  down 
now,  and  we  make  up  for  lost  time  across  the  common.  At  Huntley 
we  change  horses. 
«*  Nice  day,  ain't  it?" 
«*  How's  the  mare?" 

'*  Don't  see  no  difference  in  her." 

''  Have  him  seen  her  ?" 

**  Iss, — see  her  last  night" 

«  What  did  a'  say  ?- 

<«  Didn't  say  nothing." 

**  What  did  a' dor 

"  Didn't  do  noUung." 

"What  did  a' think?" 

"  Didn't  seem  to  think  as  a  was  much  difference  in  her." 

''Did  a' have  a  mash?" 

«•  No," 

"  Well,  you  ffive  her  a  mash,  and^—^tokispers). 

The  deuce  is  in  the  mares.  I  never  travelled  any  road  in  my 
Kfe  that  there  wasn't  a  mare  iU.  "  Him"  has  generally  seen  her. 
Sometimes  **  a's  getting  on  nicely ;"  but  nine  times  in  ten  ''  a'  don't 
see  no  difference  in  her."  *^  Him"  keeps  his  own  counsel  as  to  the 
treatment,  and  the  consultation  ends  in  a  mash  and  a  whisper. 

''  The  old  man  didn't  say  nothing  to  you  about  sending  down  no 
oaU  with  you?" 

«  No,  a'  didn't" 

^  We  be  shocking  bad  off  for  'em." 

This  is  the  wa^  with  all  the  old  men :  they  never  do  send  down  no 
oats.  Why  persist  in  keeping  these  worthless  old  feUows,  instead  of 
putting  young  stuff  in  their  place  ? 

A  window  opens.  ''Won't  you  please  to  have  something  to  take, 
Mr.  Wniiamsr* 

"  No,  ma'am,  thank  ye,  nothins  to-day." 

"  Think  you'd  better,  Mr.  Williams.  Won't  you  please  to  walk  in  ?" 

"  No,  I'm  oble^ed  to  ye,  ma'am.    I  must  be  going." 

"  Better  please  to  take  a  glass  of  ale,  Mr.  Williams." 

"  Not  to-day,  ma'am,  I  thank  f/au,'* 

"Well,  tootdd  you  just  step  this  way,  Mr.  Williams?  I  won't  de- 
tain you  a  monent" 

How's  the  reverie  getting  on,  I  wonder?    She  looks  awake. 

"  You  are  almost  at  your  journey's  end,  now  ?" 

"  VeiY  near  now,  sir." 

"  And  so  you  are  not  in  your  reverie,  after  all  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  mother  said  as  it  was  such  a  very  nice  day,  sir,  she 
thought  as  I  shouldn't  want  it,  sir." 

"  Oh !  and  so  you  left  it  behind  ?" 


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106  A  VISIT  TO   THE 

**  Oh,  noy  sir ;  I  brought  it  along  with  me  in  mj  box." 

"  Welly  that  was  right ;  but  I  suppose  you  showed  it  first  to  your 
sweetheart  at  Painswick  ?" 

'*  Well,  sir,  I  wore  it  o'  Sunday ;  but  I  haven't  got  no  sweetheart, 
sir.    I  don't  think  o'  such  things  as  them^  sir." 

«  That's  right—stick  to  that." 


^  What  did  you  please  to  say,  sir  ?*' 
**  I  didn't  think  you  could  have 


you  could  have  got  such  a  thing  in  Fainswick." 

*'  Oh,  there's  very  good  drapers  in  Painswick,  sir :  Willis  and  Mor- 
gan have  as  good  a  dbop  as  any  I  see  in  Gloucester,  however ;  and 
they  have  all  the  new  things  down  from  London,  regular.  All  the 
gentlefolks  conies  to  them,  sir^  for  miles  and  miles.  Mother  lived  in 
service  with  old  Mr.  Morgan,  sir,  before  a'  died—*" 

'^  Not  afterwards,  I  suppose." 

«  What  did  you  please  to  say,  sir?" 

<<  I  siq>po8e  your  mother  got  it  cheaper  on  that  account?" 

*^  No,  sir,  a'  didn't, — not  a  farthing.  They  never  makes  two  prices 
to  nobody ;  and  what  they  has  marked  in  their  window,  they  always 
gives,  if  you  insist  upon  it, — that 's  the  best  o'  them.  They  do  have 
beautiful  things  down  as  ever  you  see  in  your  life ;  not  a  bit  dearer 
than  Jones's,  and  twice  the  choice.  Mother  got  a  bonnet  there,  and 
I'm  sure,  if  you  was  to  go  all  over  Gloucester,  you  couldn't  find  no- 
thing better  nor  cheaper,  nor  so  cheap  neither.  Oh,  no,  there  ben't 
no  better  shops  nowhere  than  Willis  and  Morgan's." 

The  coachman  comes  out  with  a  short  cough,  and  wiping  his  lips, 
and  stuffs  a  paper  parcel  into  his  breast  pocket 

^  You  11  be  sure  to  please  not  to  forget  the  wheats  ?" 

**VU  bring  'em  down  to-morrow,  Jem.  Now  then,  sir,  if  you 
please." 

Just  beyond  Huntley  we  pass  the  little  dull  red  house  in  which 
used  to  live  a  Catholic  family,  which,  in  those  old  days,  before  eman- 
cipation bills  were  thought  possible,  or  so  much  as  dreamed  of  in  the 
wildest  fimcy,  gave  an  air  of  mystery  to  the  place.  You  expected  to 
see  stately  forms  counting  beads  as  they  walked  about  the  garden, 
and  cowIcmI  monks  and  friars  stealing  through  the  laurettinus,  with  a 
whiff  of  incense  coming  out  of  the  chimney.  Then  we  get  towards  a 
wild  and  Welshy  country,  and  presently  pull  up  at  a  comer,  where 
stands  a  man  with  a  smiling  face,  and  his  hand  held  up,  that  the 
coachman  may  stop  in  time. 

"Well,  Thomas!" 

*'WeU,  Sally  r 

*' How  be  you?" 

^<  How  be  you  V  And  the  owner  of  the  reverie  prepares  to  dis- 
mount. 

<< Thank  ye,  sir;  don't  you  trouble  yoursdf.  I  can  lean  upon  this 
young  man,  sir." 

(Perhaps  it  is  Thomas  at  Longhope,  not  Bill  at  Painswidc) 

<<  Well,  Sally,  you've  had  a  nice  day  for  travelling." 

<<  Iss,  'tis.     Be  you  pooty  well  ?     x  ou  don't  look  but  poorly." 

(Really,  very  probably  Thomas.) 

<^  You  hiavn't  nothing  but  this  here  box,  have  you,  miss  ?" 

«  Only  that,  sir." 

^<  Here,  just  you  slip  it  down  a  bit»  and  I'll  ttke  it«" 


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HAUmr  OF  A  P0KrBS8.  107 

'^  Now,  don't  yon  go  a  stnuning  of  yourself.    Him  11  gire  it  down." 

(aeariy  Thomas.) 

**  Ah  I  take  care  of  that,  Thomas ;  Acre's  a  rererie  in  that." 

'< Don't  you  be  afeared,  sir;  I'll  take  care  on  it." 

**  Let  it  come  on  the  wheel,  can't  ye,  and  111  help  you  down  with 
it." 

(Positively  Thomas.) 

"  Now  you  be  all  ri^t,  miss.     Thank  you,  miss." 

**  Wish  yon  good  day,  sir.  Wish  you  a  good  day,  sir.  Now,  you 
shan't  do  It  all  yourself,  I'll  be  hanged  if  you  shidl  I  So  you  put  it 
down,  now,  will  ye,  and  gire  me  hold  of  the  handle." 

Olappy  Thomas !) 

Some  floundering  and  puffing  to  get  over  the  hilL  A  little  way 
down  is  the  place  where  the  young  railway  is  to  quit  his  tumd^ 
*— marked  out  by  flags  and  sticks ;  and  then  we  plunge  into  the  deep 
de^Kmdency  of  the  Lee.  Do  people  survive  to  m^dle  age  in  this 
dreary  vUlage  ?  There  are  always  two  men  standiog  outside  the  pub- 
lic house,  but  they  never  speak.  It  is  not  even  a  nice  day  in  the  Lee 
— they  have  not  die  heart  to  say  it.  No  sound  is  ever  heard  there 
but  the  dank  of  the  blacksmith's  hammer,  which  never  ceases.  Oh, 
far  some  flasen-beaded  ploughboy  to  whisUe  over  such  a  Lee  as  this  I 
We  soon  pass  the  diurch^  and  turning  to  the  right,  a  tall  solitary 
Scotch  fir-tree,  more  like  a  palm,  comes  in  view.  Up  this  branchless 
tmnk,  seventy  feet  long  without  a  knot,  it  was  once  proposed  by  a 
sweet  poetess  that  I  should  swarm  in  nankeens.    But  I  anticipate. 

A  few  yards  beyond  this  palm-like  fir  is  the  house  of  CasUe-Ead; 
a  modest,  quiet,  substantial  edifice  of  grey  stone,  standing  a  little  re- 
tired firom  the  road,  a  small  lawn  interposing,  with  flower*bed%  ever- 
greens, and  a  paling.  On  the  left  is  a  kitchen-garden  and  mere 
i^rubbery ;  and  behind,  a  fiurm-house,  and  bam,  and  outbuildings,  and 
a  dirty  fold  full  of  pigs,  and  cows,  and  poultry.  Dull,  many  pec^le 
would  think  it ;  but  it  is  better  than  the  Lee ;  for  here  you  have  a 
view  of  the  Bailey  (not  the  Old  Bailey,  though  with  hanging  woods 
enough,)  and  the  road  is  the  great  thoroughfare  into  South  Wales. 

In  this  house,  about  this  Ulwu  and  kitchen-garden  and  fold,  and 
under  this  old  fir-tree,  I  passed  one  long  summer-day  with  L.E.L., 
not  then  a  poetess,  but  a  romping,  black-eyed  girl,  in  the  earliest 
dawn  of  womanhood:  she  was  oomely,  rather  than  handsome,  but 
with  a  play  of  intelligence  upon  her  features  aaore  attractive  than 
beauty. 

This  was  the  residence  of  her  aunt,  a  hoi^itable,  kind-hearted 
maiden  lady;  and  Msoci^ed  with  her  was  another  maiden  lady  of  sin- 
gular eecentricity,-*if  not  mad,  certainly  next  door  to  it ;  and  the 
partition  that  separated  the  premises  of  the  craziest  scantling.  Miss 
CI.  was  perfectly  harmless;  and  this  fact  being  well  known  to  visitors 
as  weU  as  inmates,  she  was  admitted  to  the  iBmiiy  circle,  notwitb- 
standiog  her  odd  ways.  One  of  her  peculiarities  was  a  way  of  break- 
ing in  upon  the  conversation  with  a  most  rapid  repetition  of  the 
words,  "  idy  lords  and  my  ladies — my  lords  and  my  ladies-*my  lords 
and  my  ladies,"  continued  for  minutes  together ;  and  then  she  varied 
with  another  strain  of  ^  Cabbage  and  carrots  and  cabbage  and  carrots 
and  cabbage  and  carrots" — ^for  an  equally  indefinite  period.  Any 
aUusioBS  to  garden<etaff  or  the  aristocracy  was  sure  to  set  her  off;  a 


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108  A  VISIT   TO  THE 

single  word  would  do  it.  Tbe  grace  at  dinner  was  firamed  with  a  view 
to  this  peculiarity,  for  it  was  said  that  on  one  occasion  a  clergyman, 
not  previously  cautioned,  was  taken  up  rery  shortly  at  the  word 
**  Lord  "  by  Miss  C.  with  '*  Make  us  truly  thankful,  my  lords  and  my 
ladies,"  &c.  Another  strange  way  she  had  of  stealing  quietly  about 
Uie  room^  under  pretence  of  examining  books,  or  other  articles  upon 
the  tables,  till  she  could  arrive  unnoticed  behind  a  stranser^s  chair. 
This  feat  she  usimlly  contrived  with  omsummate  skill,  tadcing  about 
as  if  she  was  waiting  for  a  slant  of  wind ;  and  when  the  victim  was 
earnestly  engaged  in  conversation  or  otherwise,  she  ran  silently  down 
upon  him,  and  commenced  operations.  Drawing  an  imaginary  carvii^* 
knife  and  fork,  she  proceeded  to  cut  up  the  pieoe  de  reaitkmoe;  and, 
as  her  lips  were  moving  all  the  time,  no  doubt  she  was  helping  a  large 
party  of  my  lords  and  my  ladies  to  your  primest  cuts.  Seated  opposite 
to  a  mirror,  it  was  not  unpleasant  to  watch  this  process,  and  see  the 
ittipartiality  with  which  you  were  helped  to  the  company;  first  a  slice 
or  two  of  lean,  then  a  bit  of  fat,  with  a  just  proportion  of  stufling  and 
gravy.  You  were  even  disposed  to  assist  her  researches  with  the 
heht  of  your  own  local  knowledge ;  as,  for  example,  **  My  dear  madam, 
allow  me  to  suggest  that  you  are  now  in  the  wrong  plaoe  for  fat;  and 
the  seasoning,  I  am  disposed  to  think,  is  not  ther^d>ont8.  Perhaps 
you  will  permit  me  to  express  a  hope  that  you  will  cut  me  handsome, 
m  case  I  Aould  come  up  cold  another  dapr.  I  hope  his  lordship  finds 
me  done  brown ;  but,  if  I  should  be  a  little  raw  in  places,  have  no 
scruple  in  sending  out  a  slice  of  me  to  be  grilled.  I  trust  her  lady- 
ship  relished  the  part  you  sent  her,  and  may  be  induced  to  come 
again.  There  are  parts  of  me  tender  enough ;  but,  upon  the  whole, 
I  am  disposed  to  think  I  might  be  improved  hj  a  litUe  hanging.  I 
have  a  fimcy  that  sweet  sauce  would  go  well  with  me.  At  any  rate, 
I  must  protest  agamst  being  served  up  ^  ^  Tartarre."  The  poor 
lady  would  get  quite  hot  in  the  process,  and  more  off  her  guard  every 
moment;  so  that  I  am  convinced,  with  a  little  management  she  might 
have  been  led  into  an  amicable  conversation  with  the  joint  she  was 
carving;  but  any  attempt  of  this  kind  was  discountenanced. 

Under  the  old  fir-tree.  ^  You  see  that  bunch  of  hay  and  feathers 
in  the  fork  of  the  branches  ?" 

^*  Yes ;  a  sparrow's  nest,  no  doubt.** 

'<OhI  I  should  so  like  a  young  sparrow.  Dear  little  thing  1  I 
should  pet  it  so  much.  Everyb^y  has  canaries  and  goldfinches 
screaming  and  giving  one  the  headaoie.  I  want  a  bird  that  does  not 
sing.  I  should  so  like  a  young  sparrow.  I  should  teach  him  all  sorts 
of  tricks.  I  hardly  know  how  to  ask  such  a  thing,  but— if  you  would 
just  climb  up,  and  bring  me  a  young  sparrow,  I  should  feel  so  much 
obliged.*' 

'<  I  fear  that  you  really  must  excuse  me.  Not  anticipating  a  plea- 
sure of  this  kind,  I  perliaps  am  not  so  well  equipped.  You  percdve 
that  Uiis  tree  is  entirely  without  branches,  except  at  the  top.  This 
woidd  be  a  trifling  omsideration  under  other  circumstances— -to  the 
country  boy,  for  instance;  but  I  rather  fear  that  I  am  not  exactly 
dressed  for  this,**  feeling  the  sharp  edges  of  the  flakes  of  bark  which 
it  was  apparent  would  he  most  inimical  to  the  Indian  fabric 

<<Ido  assure  you  it*8  not  rough;  it  is  not,  indeed; — look  herCi 
how  yery  smooth  it  is  all  the  way  up  r^there  *s  a  kind  of  knot,  you 


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HAUNTS    OF    A  POETESS.  109 

see,  about  half  way^  where  you  could  rest  as  long  as  jou  please; 
and  you  could  put  the  sparrow  (dear  little  thing  I)  in  your  hat,  and 
rest  there  again  as  you  came  down ;  but  coming  down  would  be  no- 
thiDgr 

«  Oh  dear  no^  less  than  nothings  I  am  afraid.  But  here  is  a  boy, 
perhaps  we  can  persuade  him." 

^  Oh  yes  I  he  11  go>  I  'm  sure.  Here,  young  man ;  would  you  step 
here  a  moment.    You  see  that  round  thing  of  hay  up  there  ?  ** 

^  Iss ;  that 's  a  sparrow's  nist.    I  see  the  old  'un  a  going  in." 

"  Well,  what  I  want  you  to  do  is, — ^I  'm  sure  you  '11  do  it,— nlon't 
JOU  call  it  swarming  up  a  tree  ?  Well,  I  'm  sure  you  know  how  to 
Bwarm,  and  what  nice  thick  boots  you  have.  If  I  was  a  young  man, 
I  should  be  so  proud  if  I  could  swarm  up  a  tree.  Tell  me  how  you 
doit.- 

"  Do  it?  why,  I  takes  hold  o'  the  tree  a  this  'n,  and  I  grips  him 
with  my  knees,  and  turns  my  right  foot  back'ards  a  that  'n,  and  then 
I  shores  myself  up ;  that 's  Uie  way  I  does  it" 

**  What  a  capital  way  I  How  long  do  you  think  it  would  take  you 
to  go  up  thb  tree ?    I  dare  say  not  more  than  a  minute ?" 

''  Should  n't  oonder.     And  what  d  'ye  want  when  I  gets  there  ?*' 

**  Do  you  know  I  've  set  my  heart  upon  having  a  young  sparrow.  I 
should  so  much  like  to  have  one,  if  you  would  have  the  kindness  to  go 
up  and  bring  me  one, — ^a  cock  if  you  please,— -dear  little  thing  I  You  can 
drop  it  if  you  like,  and  we  *11  hold  the  handkerchief.  I  'm  sure  you 
wilC  won't  you?" 

'*  A  young  sparra  I !  Hoo,  hoo,  hoo  1  (walking  off  and  turning 
again).  A'  wants  a  cock  sparra ! !  Hoo,  hoo,  hoot  (ten  yards  fur- 
ther).    A'  wants  a —  hoo,  hoo,  hoo,  hoo,  hoo,  hoo,  hoo  I " 

Presently  another  boy  came.  *'  Young  man,  did  you  ever  dimb  up 
a  tree?" 

**  Iss,  many  on  'em." 

**  Do  you  Uiink  you  could  climb  up  this  one  ?" 

''Iss,  think  I  could." 

^  So  you  say,  but  I  think  you  are  afraid  to  try." 

**  Noy  I  bean't,  not  a  bit  on  it.  I  ha'  got  up  harder  than  that 
un. 

**  Well,  if  you  are  not  afraid,  I  wish  you  would  go  up  and  bring  me 
down  a  young  bird  out  of  that  nest  But  you  are  sure  you  would  not 
fidl  and  hurt  yourself?  " 

^  I  bean't  afeard  o'  that  I  could  bring  down  nist  and  all  if  I 
Uked." 

**  Then  go  up,  if  you  are  not  afraid." 

But  he  was  a  calculating  boy,  and  began  by  measuring  the  trunk 
carefully  with  his  eye,  before  committing  himself.  Then  he  got  out 
/  his  mental  scales,  and  weighed  the  matter  carefully.  On  the  one 
side  was  a  probable  small  gratuity,  and  a  feather  weight  of  fame;  on 
the  other,  labour,  ride,  abraded  leathers,  and  a  possible  walloping  for 
wearing  out  the  stockings. 

**  No,  1 11  be  dazz'd  if  I  do  1  **  said  the  boy,  walking  smartly  down 
the  road. 

StOl  we  must  have  a  sparrow.  *'  In  the  ricks,  perhaps,  under  the 
thatch  ?  that  will  be  the  place,  of  course  I  There 's  a  ladder  in  the 
shed.    You  go  and  get  the  ladder,  and  I  '11  beat  round  the  ricks  with 


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110  THE   REVERIE  OF  LOYE. 

this  long  sticL  The  old  one  will  be  sure  to  fly  out.  Nerer  mind 
the  gate.  1 11  oome  and  help  you  to  carry  the  ladder  if  you  can*t  do 
it  yourselC" 

^<  Well,  as  I  'm  a  living  sinner,  if  somebody  haven't  been  and  left 
the  rick-yard  gate  open,  and  all  the  pigs  be  got  out,  and  they  're  at 
Micheldean  by  this  time,  I'll  lay  a  guinea!  Jack!  Jack!  there's 
Jem  a-been  and  left  the  rick-yard  gate  open,  and  all  the  pigs  be  got 
out  I  Do  'ee  run  down  the  road  and  see  if  you  can  see  anything  on 
'em.    Od  rot  'un  I  if  I  could  catch  'un  I  'd  thump  'un  well ! " 

I  never  saw  her  but  this  once,  and  as  she  then  appeared,  so  does 
my  recollection  follow  her  through  life,  even  to  the  last  scene  in  that 
damp,  hot,  steaming  bouse  at  Cape  Coast,  irom  whose  mysteries  the 
veil  will  never  be  lifted. 

Castle  End  is  now  to  be  let,  as  I  see  by  a  small  modest  announce- 
ment upon  the  palings.  It  appears  sadly  shrunk  and  gone  down 
in  the  world  from  what  it  used  to  be,  as  all  old  places  do  when 
we  revisit  them.  But  excepting  that  the  garden  and  the  evergreens 
look  a  little  rougher  than  formerly,  for  want  of  a  tenant  to  look  after 
them,  there  is  very  little  difference  in  the  place.  The  house,  to  be 
sure,  will  never  again  witness  such  jolly  doings  with  my  lords  and  my 
ladies,  but  the  garden,  in  reality,  may  contain  about  the  same  quan- 
tity of  cabbage  and  carrots  as  it  did  in  Miss  C/s  time,  and  the  old 
fir  tree  seems  to  have  about  as  large  a  head  for  the  wind  to  wheeze 
and  moaa  through,  as  it  had  when  the  cajolery  failed  upon  the 
climbing  boys.  Landlord !  spare  that  tree ;  for  with  it  you  would 
cut  down  some  pleasant  associations,  not  unmixed  with  serious  and 
sad  thoughts.  Our  reveries  must,  in  the  nature  of  things,  partake 
of  this  piebald  character ;  and  yet,  notwithstanding,  I  should  be  sorry 
to  pack  up  mine  in  a  box,  like  Mrs.  Jenkins's  maid  of  The  Close. 


THE  REVERIE  OF  LOVE. 

<*  Like  »  dream 
Of  what  our  soul  baa  Wed,  and  lost  for  ever, 
Thy  viiion  dwells  with  me.** 

Mas.  BuTLEa. 

Oh  t  that  such  bliss  were  mine  t    By  thy  dear  side 
To  pass  one  live-long  summer's  day  of  love ; 
To  know  that  thoa  wert  mine— to  call  thee  bride. 
And  feel  that  word  was  ratified  above ! 
How  would  I  look  into  thy  dark  blue  eyes 
And  read  the  very  secrets  of  thy  soul. 
And  watch  the  light  of  love  that  in  them  lies. 
Which  proudW  brooks  nor  thraldom  nor  oontroL 
How  would  I  hold  thee  in  a  msp  of  bliss, 
Aroond  thy  neck  how  lovin|^y  entwine. 
And  press  thy  darling  lips,  and  kiss— and  kiss. 
And  sip  to  madness  their  ambrosial  wine, 
*Till  diwsUy  I  sank  to  blissful  rest 
Upon  the  soft,  white  pillow  of  thy  bridal  breast ! 

Univ.  CoU.  Durham.  Cuthbert  Bsde. 

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A  RAMBLE  ALONG  THE  OLD  KENTISH  ROAD  PROM 
CANTERBURY  TO  LONDON: 

ITS    CUBI08ITIB8    AND     ANTIQUITIBS. 
BY  HKNBY   CUBLINO. 

^<  Kent,  in  the  Commentaries  Cesar  writ. 
Is  termed  the  dvirst  place  of  all  this  isle : — 
Sweet  is  the  ooantry^  because  fall  of  riohes."— Hemy  VI, 

In  tbe  present  time,  and  under  the  present  system,  when  aD  men 
msh  through  the  country  by  raiUroad^  a  perambulation  or  a  quiet 
ride  along  me  old  beaten  nignway^  is  almost  as  rare  a  circumstance 
as  an  excursion  through  the  centre  of  Africa. 

The  old  road  from  Canterbury  to  London  was^  in  former  days,  a 
well-knoim  route,  and  so  full  of  interest,  from  its  yarious  associa- 
tions, that  eyery  stage  was  classic  ground.  A  man  could  no  more 
pass  throuffh  the  wo^and  sceneir  on  the  London  side  of  Rochester, 
without  thinking  of  Gadshill  and  his  minions  of  the  moon  lurking 
about  in  the  gloaming,  and  listening  for  the  tread  of  trayellers,  than 
he  could  stop  at  one  of  the  Chaucer-like  hostels  at  Canterbury  with- 
out being  reminded  of  pilgrims,  fat-paunched  abbots,  lusty  bache- 
lors, and  merry-eyed  wiyes  of  Bath. 

In  such  scenes,  diyested  as  they  are  of  the  pestiferous  yapour  and 
the  squalor  of  the  mining  and  manufacturing  districts,  the  spectator, 
as  he  ffazes  oyer  the  undulatiqg  woodland,  with  here  and  there 
some  old  square  flint  tower  of  a  village  church  peeping  out,  and  the 
road  seen  winding  over  each  wooded  ascent,—- might  almost  imagine 
himself  looking  upon  England  when  tuck  of  drum  startled  the  ham- 
lets around,  and  the  York  and  Lancastrian  factions  beat  up  for  men 
to  feed  their  ranks.  '  Nay,  the  old  English  landscape  becomes  peopled 
with  the  peasantry  of  those  Shaksperian  days,  clad  in  one  sort  of 
rural  costume — ^the  broad  high-crowned  castor,  the  leathern  doublet, 
or  the  loose  smock  gathered  in  with  the  broad  belt  at  the  waist. 

As  I  lay  one  fine  morning  in  an  old,  rickety,  square-topped,  red- 
curtained  bed,  in  a  venerable  room  of  one  of  the  antique  hostels  at 
Canterbury,  whilst  the  morning  sun  streamed  through  the  casement 
upon  the  uneven  flooring,  and  shone  brightly  upon  the  oak  panels  of 
the  wainscot,  it  struck  me  that,  instead  being  whisked  up  to  Lon- 
don by  train,  I  should  like  to  box  the  road,  and  observe  its  varieties, 
and  look  up  its  points  of  interest  en  route.  After  breakfast,  there- 
fore, I  hired  a  rough  and  ready  pony,  and,  with  the  bridle  under 
my  arm,  commenced  my  pilgrimage  along  the  once  well-known  and 
well-frequented  high  road  towards  Sittingboume. 

The  first  place  I  made  a  short  halt  at,  after  clearing  the  suburbs 
and  ascending  the  hill  without  the  city,  was  the  ancient  village  of 
Harbledown.  In  this  small  place,  and  in  the  hospital  built  by  Lan- 
franc  in  the  year  1084,  a  precious  relic  was  formerly  deposited, 
which  was  kept  there  as  a  sort  of  preparatory  initiation  to  the  wor- 
shipful, on  their  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  Thomas  k  Becket,— 
the  relic  being  neither  more  nor  less  than  Thomas's  old  slipper, 
which  **  all  piQ^rims,  poor  derils,  and  wayfarers  were  enjoined  and 


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112  CANTERBURY  TO  LONDON. 

expected  to  kiss,  previous  to  their  visit  to  the  veritable  tomb  of  the 
saint  himself."* 

From  this  point  the  traveller  continues  to  ascend  through  a  beau- 
tifully wooded  country,  till  he  reaches  Bouehton  HilL  This  hill 
and  me  track  of  ground  just  traversed,  for  S^out  four  miles,  was  in 
ancient  days  a  thick  and  almost  impenetrable  forest,  in  which  the 
boar,  the  grisly  bear,  and  many  other  animals  of  the  chase,  were  to 
be  found.  And  here  the  knightly  and  the  noble,  with  their  attend- 
ant trains,  were  wont  to  pursue  their  sport,  with  hound  and  horn 
and  spear,  in  a  somewhat  more  rude  and  dangerous  fashicm  than  the 
hunt  IS  at  present  conducted. 

After  passing  the  long  street  of  Boughton,  on  the  rising  ground 
somewhat  to  the  right  of  the  road,  and  standing  in  a  fine  green  pad- 
dock or  park,  an  antiquated-lookinff  mansion  or  manor-house  may 
be  observed.  The  appearance  of  this  house,  and  its  magnificent 
stabling  and  offices,— its  dilapidated  look,  and  its  desolate  and  de- 
serted state,  had  often,  in  former  years,  interested  me. 

Passing  on,  I  now  saw  Faversham  on  my  rieht,  and  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  glance  at  the  chapel  of  Davington,  formerly  a  Benedictine 
priory,  consisting  of  twenty-six  nuns  and  their  superior,-P-called, 
from  the  poverty  of  their  revenue,  *'the  poor  nuns  of  Davington.** 
A  short  walk  further,  and  the  pleasant  village  of  Ospringe  was 
gained,  a  stream  of  clear  water  running  across  it  On  the  north 
side  are  yet  to  be  seen  the  remains  of  the  once  famous  Maisan  Dieu 
founded  by  Lucas  de  Viennes  for  the  Templars ;  whilst  on  the  oppo- 
site side  was  the  hospital  for  lepers,  part  of  which  may  also  be 
observed. 

A  mile  or  two  further  on,  and  we  come  to  another  long  village,  of 
one  street,  called  Green  Street  Here  formerly  the*  famous  knight, 
Apuldorf,  kept  his  state,  amongst  his  numerous  vassals  and  men-at- 
arms.  He  was  the  friend  and  6on  camaradoo£  Richard  Coeur-de- 
Lion.  They  were  fratres  jurati, — and  the  very  name  of  Apuldorf, 
like  that  of  his  royal  companion,  was  terrible  to  the  ears  of  the 
Saracen.  Castle  Ghrove,  as  it  is  still  called,  has  even  yet  some  green 
mounds,  to  point  out  the  site  of  the  stronghold  where  he  kept  was- 
sail. The  armour  of  this  Kentish  champion  formerly  hung  in  Leyn- 
ham  Church. 

Passing  Green  Street,  the  eye  now  traverses  a  charming  country, 
— woodlimd  and  meadow  on  the  left,  and,  to  the  right  the  Thames 
and  Medway  are  seen  emptying  themselves  into  the  main  of  waters. 

A  short  walk  further  brought  me  to  Tong.  Here  I  found  the  re- 
mains of  a  verv  ancient  fortress,  built  (saiUi  tradition)  by  Hengist 
and  Horsa  in  450,  A  large  moat  would  seem  to  have  surrounded  the 
stronghold ;  but  a  mill  mw  choked  up  a  portion  of  it  for  upwards  of 
two  hundred  years.  The  miller,  I  was  informed,  whilst  digging 
within  the  castle,  discovered  a  brass  helmet,  and  a  number  of  smaU 
urns. 

As  I  prepared  to  mount  my  pony  in  order  to  pursue  my  way,  it 
struck  me  that  he  looked  hungry.  Perhaps  some  slight  feeling  of  the 
sort  which  I  began  to  experience  myself  might  have  been  father  to 
the  thought    I  therefore  resolved  to  look  up  a  quaint  hostel  in  the 

*  It  WM  this  ilipper  which  Erasmoi  the  learned  squinted  upon  with  contempt  mnd 
derision,  on  occasion  of  his  yisit,  describing  it  as  neither  more  nor  less  than  the 
upper  leather  of  an  old  shoe,  garnished  with  one  or  two  crystals  set  in  copper. 

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CANTERBURY   TO   LONDON.  113 

first  town  or  village  I  came  to,  and  make  a  halt  there  for  the  impor- 
tant purpose  of  dining.  A  mile  further,  and  Sittingbourne  appeared 
before  me. 

Sittingbourne,  like  all  the  stages  on  this  road>  a  few  vears  back, 
and  before  nuloads  monopolized  ail  travel,  was  a  lively  village.  How 
wdl  do  we  remember  it  in  the  palmy  da^s  of  posting.  Its  inn- 
yards  all  live,  and  merry  as  the  painting  which  describes  the  stable- 
yard  of  the  hoBtel  in  the  days  of  Chaucer.  What  queer-looking 
hangers  on^  knowing  postboys,  pimple-faced  hostlers,  and  rapscallion 
helpers  lounged  fbout  the  livelong  da^,  in  waiting  for  the  nume- 
rous first- turns  and  stages  that  came  tiring  on.  What  shoutings  for 
first-turn  hoift  up,  and  first  and  second  turns  down  we  used  to  near  I 
What  crackings  of  whips  and  startings  of  teams,  and  what  knowing 
fomr-in-hand  Qoaches  we  used  to  see  in  those  days.  Then,  what  bril- 
liant equipages.,  trunked  and  imperialed,  and  radiant  with  female 
loveliness^  came  whirling  up  to  the  inn  doors  every  hour  of  the  day. 
What  sprightly  waiters  fiew  about,  napkin  in  hand,  in  attendance 
upmi  the  various  dinners,  and  what  blooming  chambermaids  hurried 
hither  and  thither,  their  rooms  filled  with  guests  for  the  night,  and 
hardly  knowing  where  to  accommodate  fresh  arrivals  continually 
coming  up. 

Alas  for  Sittingbourne  I  Like  all  the  old  towns  on  this  and  every 
other  road,  thy  glory  hath  departed  from  thee, — thy  hostlers  are 
''trade  fallen,"— thy  inns  shut  up, — ^thy  landlords  have  slunk  away, 
and  peaked  and  pined  for  lack  of  guests.  The  very  helpers  and 
jolly  dogs,  who  used  to  hang  on,  and  take  their  life  and  being  from 
the  reflected  grandeur  of  the  portly  coachman  who  drove  the  teams 
they  tended,  are  no  more.  The  hostlers  have  wandered  away  no  one 
knows  where,  to  die  of  grief  and  chagrin  no  one  knows  how.  The 
stalls  of  the  numerous  stables  have  long  been  tenantless.  The  signs 
before  the  inn-doors  no  longer  promise  good  entertainment  for  roan 
or  beast,  and  the  railroad  and  the  station  have  superseded  Sitting- 
bourne. 

About  a  mile  from  Milton  church,  which  is  the  next  place  the 
traveller  comes  to,  is  a  good-sized  field  called  Campsley  Down.  This 
is  the  spot  on  which  the  Danes  encamped  under  Hastings.  The  re- 
mains of  a  moat  point  out  the  place  where  these  robbers  erected  a 
stronghold. 

King  Alfred  had  a  palace  at  Milton,  which  caused  it  to  be  called 
"  The  royal  town  of  Milton." 

A  short  walk  further,  and  we  come  to  a  slight  ascent  called  Caicol- 
Hill.  On  this  spot  the  Kentish  Britons  were  encountered  by  Caius 
Trebonius,  who  had  been  detached  by  Caesar  with  three  legions  and 
all  his  cavalry  for  forage,  on  which  occasion  the  Britons  were  beaten. 

Passing  over  Standard  Hill,  we  come  to  the  ancient  town  of  New- 
ington.  Here  are  the  very  slight  remains  of  the  nunnery  of  New- 
ington.  By  whom  it  was  founded  no  record  remains.  Tradition,  how- 
ever, gives  its  Gothic  walls  and  cloistered  seclusion  an  evil  repute. 
The  nuns  of  Newington  strangled  their  prioress  in  her  bed,  and,  to 
hide  the  deed,  cast  her  body  into  a  deep  pit.  The  crime  was,  hbw- 
ever  discovered^  and  Henry  the  Third  delivered  the  unscrupulous 
sisterhood  who  were  guilty  over  to  the  secular  power,  to  be  dealt 
with  according  to  their  deserts.  After  this  he  filled  their  cloister 
with  seven  secular  canons.     This  fraternity,  however,  seem  to  have 

VOL.  XXIII.  I 


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114  THE  WATEE-LILY- 

been  as  bad  a  lot  as  the  sisterhood  they  succeeded^  for  four  of  the 
shavelings,  very  soon  after  their  admission,  murdered  one  of  their 
own  brother  canons,  and  they  were  ousted  and  executed  in  turn.  So 
much  for  the  nunnery  of  Newington. 

We  now  left  this  neighbourhood  of  monkish  misdeed,  and,  gird* 
ing  up  our  loins,  proceeded  through  the  village  of  Rainham,  passed 
over  the  old  Roman  road,  the  famous  Watling  Street,  and  stood  upon 
Chatham  Hill.  Here  we  reined  up  for  a  time ;  and,  as  we  paused 
to  regard  the  magnificent  specimen  of  castellated  grandeur  which  is 
here  first  seen  towering  over  the  neighbouring  town,  we  reflected, 
for  a  moment,  upon  the  fierce  contentions  of  the  Norman  period, 
during  which  this  old  road  must  have  been  the  constant  witness  of 
battle  and  slaughter,  flight  and  pursuit 

Descending  the  chalky  hill,  we  come  to  Chatham,  a  town  well 
known  to  the  united  services.  Here  the  traveller  quickly  forgets  the 
'*  o'ertaken  past''  in  the  bustle  and  stir  of  objects  of  present  interest. 
In  the  crowded  streets  of  Chatham  we  fall  in,  at  every  step,  with  the 
soldiers  of  the  latest  fields  in  which  the  British  flag  has  been  unfurl- 
ed. Every  fourth  man  one  meets  in  Chatham  wears  the  uniform  of 
the  unwearied,  indefatigable  infantry  of  the  line.  As  we  passed 
into  Rochester,  a  regiment  iust  disembarked  was  marching  into  the 
town.  Their  medals  told  of  the  last- fought  fields  in  India,  and  they 
came  on  in  all  the  delieht  of  again  reaching  home,  absolutely  dancing 
and  singing  through  me  streets. 


THE  WATER  LILY. 

«'  She  that  purifies  the  light. 
The  virgiD  Lily,  faithful  to  her  white, 
Whereon  Eve  wept  in  Eden  for  her  ihame." 

Hood. 

The  earth  lay  dreaming  in  a  golden  light. 
The  tall  trees  cast  their  shadows  in  the  pool 
Where  lay  the  water,  lily  gjeaming  bright 
Amid  the  sedgy  umbrage  dun  and  oooL 
All  dad  in  fairest  white  like  saintly  nun. 
Or,  like  some  reilid  bride*  in  nuptial  dress. 
Who  feels  another's  heart  in  her*s  is  wound. 
Another  life  of  duty  is  begun. 
And  trembles  in  her  love  and  loveliness, — 
Amid  its  shining  leaves  it  lay  at  rest 
Reclined  upon  the  water*s  throbbing  breast, 
Answering  its  ev'ry  motion,  ev'ry  bound, 
As  though  some  mystic  love  to  them  was  given : 
The  Vestal  of  the  Wave,  It  lay  and  looked  to  heaven  ! 

Univ.  Coll.  Duriiam.  CuTHBEmr  Bxdc. 

*  Njpmphma  (wf»^  **  a  bride")  alba  is  it^  botanical 


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115 
MEMOIR  OF  BEETHOVEN. 

BY  M186   TH0MA8INA   R088. 
WITH  A  POBTBAIT.* 

An  eminent  composer  of  the  sixteenth  century,  Claudio  Monte- 
verde  of  Cremona,  was  the  first  who  ventured  to  break  through  the 
orthodox  rules  of  counterpoint,  which  before  his  time  had  been  re- 
garded as  sacred  and  inviolable.  Throwing  aside  the  fetters  imposed 
on  him  by  the  composers  of  earlier  days,  Monte  verde  boldly  struck 
oat  a  path  for  himself.  In  like  manner  did  Beethoven  daringly 
break  through  pre-established  rules,  and,  the  consequence  was, 
that  in  the  early  part  of  his  career  he  was  exposed  to  the  same 
sort  of  censure  which  two  centuries  previously  had  assailed  the 
contrapuntist  of  Cremona.  His  innovations  far  outstripped  those 
of  Ha^dn  and  Mozart,  who,  in  their  turn  had  deviated  from 
the  still  more  rigid  laws  observed  by  Hand^  and  Sebastian 
Bach.  But  Beethoven  was  happily  endowed  with  an  independ- 
enoe  of  mind  which  enabled  him  to  pursue  his  course  heedless 
of  critical  reproof,  and  the  mighty  power  of  his  genius  soon  tri- 
nmphed  over  all  opposition.  At  the  commencement  of  the  present 
century  Beethoven's  grand  orchestral  compositions  would  scarcely 
have  been  listened  to  anywhere  but  in  Germany  ;  and  now  no  com- 
poser can  be  said  to  enjoy  more  universal  admiration.  He  disdained 
to  copy  his  predecessors  in  the  most  distant  manner,  and,  by  his 
bold,  energetic,  and  original  style,  he  carried  off  the  prize  of  musical 
Olympus. 

Ludwi^  van  Beethoven  was  borh  on  the  17th  of  December,  1770,  at 
Bonn.  His  father  was  a  singer  attached  to  the  Electoral  Chapel,  and 
his  grand&ther,  who  is  said  to  have  been  a  native  of  Mae8tricht,f 
was  music-director  at  Bonn  in  the  time  of  the  Elector  Clemens.  It 
has  been  alleged  that  Beethoven  was  a  natural  son  of  Frederick  the 
Great.  This  story,  which  is  entirely  devoid  of  foundation,  occasioned 
^eat  annoyance  to  Beethoven,  who,  however,  satisfactorily  refuted 
It.  In  a  letter  on  the  subject,  addressed  to  his  friend.  Dr.  Wegeler, 
dated  1826,  he,  very  much  to  his  honour,  requests  the  dqptor  "  will 
make  known  to  the  world  the  unblemished  character  of  his  mother." 
Beethoven  received  elementarv  instruction  at  a  public  school, 
whilst  his  father  taught  him  music  at  home,  where  he  studied  the 
pianoforte  and  violin.  When  practising  the  latter  instrument,  he 
was  accustomed  to  retire  to  a  closet  in  a  remote  part  of  the  house  ; 
and  it  is  related,  that,  as  soon  as  he  began  to  play,  a  spider  used  to  let 
Itself  down  from  the  ceiling,  and  alight  upon  the  instrument.  The 
young  musician  became  interested  in  watching  this  spider,  and  in 
endeavouring  to  discover  how  its  movements  might  be  influenced  by 
music  One  day  his  mother  happened  to  enter  the  closet  when  the 
spider  had  settled  itself  on  the  violin.  Casting  her  eye  on  what  she 
supposed  to  be  an  unpleasant  intruder,  she  whisked  it  away  with  her 
handkerchief,  and  killed  it  This  incident  is  said  to  have  produced 
a  most  powerful  effect  on  die  sensitive  mind  of  Beethoven,  and  it  was 

*  The  annexed  portrait,  engraved  by  permission  of  Messrs.  R.  Cocks  and  Co.,  is 
considered  by  Mr.  Charles  Czemy  to  be  the  most  correct  likeness  of  the  celebrated 
composer. 

t  The  preposition  van  attached  to  Beethoven's  name  denotes  his  Flemish 
descent. 

VOL.   XXII I.  K 


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116  MEMOIR   OR 

some  time  before  he  recovered  from  the  melancholy  into  which  it 
plunged  him. 

At  the  age  of  15,  Beethoven  having  attained  great  proficiency  on 
the  organ,  was  appointed  organist  to  the  chapel  of  the  Elector  of  Co- 
logne,  and  the  emperor,  Joseph  IL,  settled  upon  him  a  small  pen- 
sion. Being  desirous  of  profiting  by  the  instruction  of  Haydn,  he 
obtained  the  elector's  permission  to  reside  in  Vienna  for  a  few  years  ; 
and  in  1792  he  left  Bonn  for  that  purpose.  All  the  talent  of  musical 
Oermany  was  at  that  time  congregated  in  the  Austrian  capitid,  and 
Beethoven,  then  in  his  twenty-second  year,  was  so  charmed  with  the 
congenial  society  by  which  he  found  himself  surrounded,  that  he  re- 
solved to  make  Vienna  his  permanent  place  of  abode.  **  Here  will  I 
stay>"  said  he  to  himself,  '^  even  though  the  emperor  should  cut  off 
my  pension."  He  carried  this  resolution  into  effect,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  one  or  two  visits  to  Leipsic  and  Berlin,  he  spent  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life  in  or  near  Vienna.  But  he  did  not  long  continue 
the  pupil  of  Haydn,  with  whom  he  soon  became  dissatisfied.  Even 
at  that  early  period  of  his  life  his  temper  was  marked  by  caprice  and 
singularity,  and  a  determined  resolution  to  follow  his  own  taste  and 
opinions  in  all  questions  relating  to  composition  and  scoring,  ren- 
dered him  a  most  refractory  and  wayward  pupil.*  He  would  not 
acknowledge  himself  to  have  been  the  pupil  of  Haydn,  because,  as  he 
affirmed,  he  had  never  learned  anything  from  him.t  When  llaydn 
left  Vienna  on  his  second  visit  to  England,  Beethoven  rejoiced  at  the 
opportunity  thus  afforded  for  their  separation.  He  then  began  to 
take  lessons  from  the  celebrated  Albrechtsberger,  who,  like  Haydn, 
found  him  thoroughly  untractable. 

Among  the  many  distinguished  acquaintance  formed  by  Beet- 
hoven soon  after  his  arrival  in  Vienna,  may  be  numbered  the  prince- 
ly family  of  Lichnowsky.  Prince  Karl  Lichnowsky,  who  had  been  a 
pupil  of  Mozart,  was  the  Maecenas  of  the  musical  professors  then  in 
Vienna.  The  prince  assigned  to  Beethoven  a  yearly  pension  of  six 
hundred  florins,  and  he  became  the  paternal  friend  of  the  young 
composer.  The  princess,  also  a  most  accomplished  musician,  ex- 
tended to  him  the  affection  of  a  mother.  The  attentions  lavished  on 
him  by  this  illustrious  couple  were  almost  ludicrous;  and>  truly,  the 
eccentricities,  and  the  strange  temper  of  their  pro/^g^,  must  frequently 
have  taxed  their  indu^ence  to  the  utmost.  Takmg  a  retrospect  of 
this  period  of  his  life,  he  observes^  in  a  letter  to  a  fHend :  ''  The 

*  His  unwillingDess  to  confonn  to  rules  is  exemplified  in  the  following  anecdote 
related  by  Ries,  in  his  ^*Noiizen  uelter  Bethoven,"  *'  One  day,  during  a  walk,  I 
was  talking  to  him  of  two  consecutive- fifths  which  occur  in  one  of  his  earliest  violin 
quartet ts  in  C  minor,  and  which,  to  my  surprise,  sound  most  harmoniously.  Beet- 
hoven did  not  know  what  I  meant,  and  would  not  believe  the  intervals  could  be 
fifths.  He  soon  produced  the  piece  of  music  paper  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
carrying  about  with  him,  and  1  wrote  down  tlie  passage  with  its  four  parts.  Wlien 
I  ha!d  thus  proved  myself  to  be  right,  he  said,  *  Well,  and  who  forbids  them  ?*  Not 
knowing  what  to  make  of  this  question,  I  was  silent,  and  he  repeated  it  several  times, 
until  I  at  length  replied,  *  Why,  it  is  one  of  the  very  first  rules.'  He,  however,  still 
repeated  his  question,  and  I  answered,^  Marpurg,  Kimberger,  Fuchs.  &c — infbBt, 
all  our  theorists.'    *  Well,  then,  /  permit  them,'  was  his  fimd  answer.'* 

t  At  this  ungracious  treatment,  Haydn  very  naturally  felt  offended ;  but  how- 
ever true  it  might  be  that  he  had  learned  nothing  from  his  master,  yet  traces  of 
Haydn's  cUssic  elegance  of  style  are  clearly  discernible  in  some  of  Beethoven's 
early  works. 


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BEETHOVEN.  117 

princess  treated  roe  with  grandmotherly  fondness^  and  sometimes 
I  could  welUnigh  have  persuaded  myself  that  she  would  have  a 
^ass  shade  put  over  roe^  lest  I  should  be  touched  or  breathed  on 
bj  persons  whom  she  deemed  unworthy  to  approach  me." 

In  this  brightest  interval  of  the  great  composer's  existence,  whilst 
he  was  mingling  in  the  gayest  and  most  intellectual  circles  of  Viennese 
society,  he  conceived  an  ardent  and  romantic  attadiment  for  a  lady 
of  noble  family.  This  afiair  is  alluded  to  by  some  of  his  biogra- 
phers, but  in  a  manner  sufficiently  vague  to  warrant  the  inference 
that  it  was  clouded  in  mystery.  Beethoven's  correspondence  con- 
tains several  letters  to  this  lady.  They  aie  addressed  to  "  Julia," 
and  from  their  tenor  it  is  obvious  that  an  obstacle  more  formidable 
tfasn  difference  of  rank  rendered  a  union  with  the  object  of  his  af- 
fecdona  impossible.  A  paper,  in  his  own  handwriting,  contains  the 
following  passage,  evidently  referring  to  this  subject : 

**  Love — ^love  alone  is  capable  of  conferring  on  me  a  happier  state 
of  existence.  Oh,  heaven  !  let  me  at  lengUi  find  her, — she  who  may 
strengthen  me  in  virtue — ^who  may  lawfully  be  mine." 

But,  whatever  may  be  die  facts  connected  with  this  unfortunate 
attachment,  it  furnished  inspiration  for  one  of  Beethoven's  roost  ex- 
quisite productions,  viz.  the  Sonata  Op.  27«  This  composition  is 
known  throughout  Austria  by  the  name  of  the  ''  Moonlight  Sonata" 
—-a  name  intended  merely  to  indicate  the  tender  and  romantic  co- 
louring with  which  it  is  imbued.  In  the  published  copies,  the  title 
and  dedication  differ,  from  the  style  in  which  they  appear  in  the 
composer's  MS.,  where  the  following  words  are  written  at  the  head 
of  the  composition :  ^*  Sonata  quasi  Fantasia  dedicata  alia  Madama- 
zella  Contessa  Giulietta  di  Gruicciardi." 

During  an  interval  of  ten  or  twelve  years,  the  first  performances 
of  all  Beethoven's  works  regularly  took  place  at  Prince  Lichnowsky's 
musical  parties.  On  the  occasion  on  which  the  celebrated  Razu- 
mowsky  Quartett  was  first  pWed,  the  performers  were,  Schuppinzigh 
(first  violin),  Sina  (second),  Weiss  (viola),  and  Krafl  alternately  with 
Linke  (violoncello).  In  the  frequent  rehearsals  of  the  quartett,  Beet- 
hoven seemed  to  have  infused  into  the  souls  of  the  performers  some 
portion  of  his  own  sublime  spirit,  and  the  result  was  a  degree  of 
perfection  which  enraptured  the  assembled  cognoscenti, 

Beedioven's  quartett  music,  which  may  be  said  to  have  opened  a 
new  world  of  art  full  of  sublime  conceptions  and  revelations,  found 
worthy  interpreters  in  the  four  great  instrumentalists  above  named, 
over  ue  purity  of  whose  performance  the  composer  watched  with 
unceasing  anxiety.  In  1825,  when  one  of  his  last  difficult  quartetts 
was  to  be  performed  before  a  very  select  audience,  he  senttoSchup- 
pensigh,  fena,  Weiss,  and  Linke,  the  parts  respectively  allotted  to 
them,  accompanied  by  the  following  droll  letter : 

"  My  dear  Friends, 
'^  Herewith  each  of  you  will  receive  what  belongs  to  him,  and  you 
are  hereby  engaged  to  play,  on  condition  that  each  binds  himself  upon 
his  honour  to  do  his  best  to  distinguish  himself,  and  to  surpass  the 
rest.  This  paper  must  be  signed  by  each  of  those  who  have  to  co- 
operate in  the  performance  in  question.  "  Bbethovbn." 

In  the  year  1800,  the  grand  oratorio  of  the  "  Mount  of  Olives"  was 
comroenced,  and  whilst  engaged  on  that  work,  the  composer  expe- 

K   2 


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118  MEMOIR    OF 

rienced  the  first  symptoms  of  the  deafness  which  subsequently  became 
so  fatal.  He  wrote  the  "  Mount  of  Olives"  during  a  summer  sojourn  at 
Hetzendorf,  a  village  contiguous  to  the  gardens  of  the  imperial  palace 
of  Schonbrunn.  At  that  place  he  spent  several  summers  in  complete 
seclusion,  and  there  he  composed  his  ''  Fidelio^"  in  the  year  1805. 
Beethoven  used  to  relate  that  he  wrote  these  two  great  works  in  the 
thickest  part  of  the  wood  in  the  park  of  Schonbrunn,  seated  between 
two  branches  of  an  oak,  which  shot  out  near  the  ground  from  the  trunk 
of  the  tree.  Schindler  mentions  that,  in  the  year  1823,  he  visited 
that  part  of  the  park  in  company  with  Beethoven,  and  that  he  then 
saw  the  tree  which  conjured  up  many  interesting  reminiscences. 

A  lingering  fit  of  illness,  accompanied  by  increasing  deafness, 
disabled  him,  for  the  space  of  two  or  three  years,  from  proceeding 
with  a  work  which  he  had  long  previously  planned  out.  This  was 
the  Sinfonia  Eroica,  intended  as  an  homage  to  Napoleon^  then  First 
Consul  of  the  French  republic*  A  copy  of  the  sinfonia,  with  a  dedi- 
cation to  the  conqueror  of  Marengo,  was  on  the  point  of  being  des- 
patched to  Paris,  through  the  French  embassy  at  Vienna,  when 
intelligence  was  received  that  Napoleon  had  caused  himself  to  be 
proclaimed  Emperor  of  the  French.  On  hearing  this,  Beethoven 
tore  off  the  title  leaf  of  the  symphony,  and  flung  the  work  itself  on 
the  floor,  with  a  torrent  of  execration  against  the  "new  tyrant." 
So  great  was  Beethoven's  vexation  at  this  event,  that  it  was  long 
ere  he  could  be  persuaded  to  present  his  composition  to  the  world. 
When  it  subsequently  appeared,  the  words  **  Per  festegiare  iliwvtnire 
dun grand'uomo "  were  appended  to  the  title. 

The  next  great  labour  of  the  composer  was  his  opera  of  **  Fidelio," 
which  was  first  performed  under  the  title  of  "Leonora,"  at  the 
Theater  an  der  Wien.  To  this  opera,  Beethoven  composed  no  less 
than  four  overtures,  and  rejected  them  all  by  turns.  The  splendid 
overture  in  E  (that  now  performed  with  the  opera),  was  not  written 
till  the  year  1815. 

In  1^09,  the  appointment  of  kapell-meister  to  the  King  of  West- 
phalia was  offered  to  Beethoven  with  a  salary  of  600  ducats.  How- 
ever it  was  considered  discreditable  to  Austria  to  suffer  the  great 
composer,  whom  she  proudly  called  her  own,  to  be  transferr^  to 
any  other  country.  Accordingly  the  Archduke  Rudolph,  Prince 
Kinsky,  and  Prince  Lobkowitz,  offered  to  settle  upon  him  an 
annuity  of  4000  florins,  on  condition  that  he  would  not  quit  Austria 
— 4t  condition  to  which  Beethoven  readily  acceded. 

All  persons  of  intelligence  and  taste,  who  visited  Vienna,  eagerly 
sought  an  introduction  to  Beethoven ;  the  consequence  was  that  he 
was  beset  by  visitors  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  who  approached 
him  with  the  deference  they  would  have  rendered  to  a  sovereign. 
Among  the  eminent  persons  introduced  to  the  great  composer  in  the 
year  1810,  was  Bettina  Brentano,  better  known  as  Madame  Von 
Amim.  This  celebrated  lady  has  described  her  interviews  with 
the  composer  in  her  letters  to  Gothe,  contained  in  the  well-known 
publication  entitled,  "Gothe's  Briefwechsel  mit  einem  Kinde." 
Bettina  paved  the  way  to  a  personal  acquaintance  between  Gothe 
and  Beethoven ;  and  these  two  eminent  men  met  for  the  first  time 
in  the  summer  of  1812  at  Tceplitz. 

•  The  idea  is  said  to  have  been  suggested  to  the  composer  by  Bemadotte,  at 
that  time  French  Ambassador  in  Vienna. 


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BEETHOVEN.  119 

Whilst  struggling  with  declining  health  and  constantly  increasing 
deafness,  Beethoven  produced  many  of  his  immortal  works ;  among 
others  the  symphony  in  A  major^  and  the  ''  Battle  Symphony."  The 
latter  was  composed  in  commemoration  of  the  battle  of  Vittoria.  It 
is  a  magnificent  specimen  of  that  style  of  composition  called  by  the 
Germans  ionmalerei  (musical-painting),  and  it  pourtrays  with  graphic 
powevs,  through  the  medium  of  sounds^  the  horrors  of  war,  and  the 
triumph  of  victory.  There  is  one  passage  in  the  piece,  which  though 
trifling  in  itself,  is  indicative  of  the  master-mind  of  the  composer. 
At  the  opening  of  the  symphony,  the  air  of  ''  Marlbrook  **  is  mtrp- 
dttced  as  the  national  march  played  by  the  French  troops  whilst 
advancing.  But  as  the  battle  proceeds,  it  becomes  evident  to  the 
hearer  that  the  French  are  giving  way,  and  that  they  are  falling  in 
numbers  before  the  Britbh  army.  At  length  the  band,  which  at  the 
commencement  of  the  conflict  was  spiritedly  playing  ''  Marlbrook," 
is  gradually  dispersed,  and  only  one  nfer  is  heutl  attempting  to  keep 
up  the  fast-fleeting  valour  of  his  countrymen  by  the  inspiring  strain 
of  the  favourite  march.  But  the  solitary  musician  is  wearied  and 
dispirited,  and  he  now  plays  "Marlbrook"  in  the  minor  key,  slowly 
and  sorrowfully,  and  in  broad  contrast  with  the  gay  idlegro  which 
marked  its  commencement.    This  is  a  true  touch  of  nature. 

The  first  performance  of  the  "  Battle  Symphony "  took  place  in 
the  Hall  of  the  University  of  Vienna,  in  I>ecember  1812,  and  the 
proceeds  of  the  performance  were  destined  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Austrian  and  Bavarian  soldiers  disabled  at  the  battle  of  Hanau. 
On  this  occasion  the  leading  musicians  of  Germany  took  the  most 
subordinate  parts  in  the  orchestra,  all  feelings  of  professional  im- 
portance being  merged  in  sentiments  of  charity  and  patriotism.  In 
a  letter  of  thanks  addressed  to  the  orchestral  performers,  Beethoven 
observes: — ''On  me  devolved  the  task  of  conducting  the  whole,  be- 
cause the  music  was  my  composition ;  but  had  it  been  by  any  one 
else,  I  should  have  taken  my  place  at  the  great  drum  just  as  cheer- 
fully as  Hummel  did,  for  we  were  all  actuated  solely  by  the  pure 
feeling  of  patriotism,  and  a  willingness  to  exert  our  abilities  for  those 
who  had  sacrificed  so  much  for  us." 

Hie  cantata,  entitled  Die  glorreiche  Augenblick,  was  composed  in 
honour  of  the  Congress  of  Vienna,  during  which  the  allied  sovereigns 
shewed  marked  attention  to  Beethoven,  and  the  £mperor  Alexander 
repeatedly  visited  him. 

From  the  year  1815  Beethoven's  life  was  overclouded  by  an  ac- 
cumulation of  unfortunate  circumstances,  which  rendered  him  de- 
plorably unhappy.  The  lop  of  a  portion  of  the  pension  settled  on 
him  in  1809  had  greatly  diminished  his  pecuniary  resources.  Added 
to  this,  a  nephew,  who  was  under  his  guardianship,  whom  he  tenderly 
loved,  and  for  whom  he  had  made  great  sacrifices,  deeply  afflicted 
him  by  his  misconduct. 

His  deafness  speedily  increased  so  much  as  to  deprive  him 
almost  totally  of  the  sense  of  hearing,  and  consequently,  to  unfit 
him  for  conducting  an  orchestra.  A  touching  instance  of  this 
unfitness  is  related  by  Schindler.  It  occurred  when  Beethoven  was 
invited  to  conduct  his  *'  Fidelio "  at  the  court  opera  house  in 
Vienna.  He  took  the  ie^npi  either  much  too  quick,  or  much  too 
slow,  to  the  great  embarrassment  of  the  singers  and  the  orchestra. 
"For  some  time,"  says  Schindler,  " the  efforts  of  Kapell-Meister 

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120  MEMOIR   OF  BEETHOVEN. 

Umlauf^  kept  the  performers  together,  but,  it  was  soon  found  im- 
possible to  proceed,  and  it  was  necessary  to  say  to  poor  Beethoven, 
'This  will  not  do/  But  no  one  had  the  courage  to  utter  these 
words,  and  when  Beethoven  perceived  a  certain  embarrassment  in 
every  countenance,  he  motioned  me  to  write  down  for  him  what  it 
meant.  In  a  few  words  I  stated  the  cause,  at  the  same  time  entreat- 
ing him  to  desist,  on  which  he  immediately  left  the  orchestra.  The 
melancholy  which  seized  him  after  this  painful  incident  was  not  dis- 
pelled the  whole  day,  and  during  dinner  he  uttered  not  a  single  word." 

Having  completed  his  ninth  symphony,  he  planned  two  great 
works.  One  was  an  oratorio,  to  be  entitled  <'  The  Victory  of  the 
Cross : "  the  other,  which  he  proposed  making  the  grand  effort  of  his 
life, — the  conclusion  of  his  artistical  exertions, — ^was  to  set  G^the's 
''Faust"  to  music.  But  these  works,  together  with  a  projected 
requiem,  were  all  laid  aside,  for  the  purpose  of  proceeding  with  some 
quartetts,  which  the  Russian  Prince  Nicolas  Oalitsin  had  com- 
missioned him  to  compose.  For  these  quartetts,  the  Prince  agreed 
to  pay  the  sum  of  125  ducats,  but  Beethoven  never  received  a  frac- 
tion of  the  money.  On  these  quartetts  he  was  occupied  for  several 
years,  his  progress  being  repeatedly  interrupted  by  ill  health. 
The  first  work  produced  after  his  partial  recovery  from  a  pro- 
tracted indisposition,  was  the  quartett,  (No.  12)  with  the  remark- 
able adagio,  having  affixed  to  it  the  words:  "  Canzione  di 
rengraziamento  in  modo  lldico  offerta  alia  Divinita  da  un  guarito." 
But  the  convalescence  thus  beautifully  commemorated  was  not  of 
long  duration.  The  composer  was  soon  seized  with  inflammation  of 
the  lungs,  accompanied  by  symptoms  of  dropsy>  which  confined  him 
to  his  bed,  and  utterly  disabled  nim  IVom  writing.  It  is  melancholy 
to  reflect  that  in  this  sad  condition,  Beethoven  was  painfully  pressed 
by  pecuniary  difficulties.  To  the  disgrace  of  the  Viennese,  who 
were  then  in  the  delirium  of  what  was  not  inaptly  termed  the  Rossini 
fever,  their  own  great  musician  was  neglected  and  forgotten.  But 
for  a  donation  of  100/.  sent  to  Beethoven  by  the  Philharmonic 
Society,  who  had  previously,  on  two  occasions,  invited  him  to  Lon- 
don, he  must  have  wanted  comforts  and  even  necessaries.  After 
lingering  for  some  time  in  a  hopeless  condition,  symptoms  of  a 
speedy  termination  to  his  sufferings  appeared,  and  he  breathed  his 
last  on  the  26th  of  March,  1827. 

The  character  of  Beethoven  affords  a  curious  subject  of  specula- 
tion to  the  observer  of  the  phenomena  of  the  human  mind ;  and  it 
must  not  be  supposed  that  the  materials  collected  by  the  industry 
and  curiosity  of  his  various  biographers  are  exhausted  in  the  above 
brief  memoir  of  this  extraordinary  man.  The  struggle  between  the 
conscious  authority  of  the  lofty  mind,  and  the  internal  conviction  of 
defective  personal  qualifications  (a  struggle  forcibly  marked  on  the 
character  of  Beethoven),  remains  yet  to  be  portrayed.  His  aspira- 
tion for  the  beautiful — unattainable  even  by  his  maBtery  over  the 
resources  of  art,— his  honourable  contempt  of  vulgar  ambition  and 
sordid  meanness — his  blighted  affections, — the  gntdoal  decay  and 
final  loss  of  that  faculty  regarded  by  the  multitude  as  the  one  on 
which  his  very  existence  and  claim  to  attention  must  depend, — (for 
who  would  before  have  believed  in  the  possibilitr  of  a  deaf  musi- 
cian?)— all  these  circumstances  have  yet  to  be  traced  in  their  operation 
until  the  dreary  end  closes  upon  the  great  Beethoven ;  dead,  even 
before  death,  to  the  glory  which  was  expanding  round  his  name. 


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121 
A  FETE  CHAMPfeTRE  IN  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

BT  UBS.   PBBCr  8INNBT. 

As  I  have  not  the  enviable  power  possessed  by  the  lady  in 
Tancredy  who  could  ''describe  in  a  sentence,  and  personify  in  a 
phrasey"  I  must  devote  several  lines  to  the  locality  before  attempt- 
ing to  give  an  account  of  the  diplomatic  fete  of  Sultan  Abd-ul- 
Meschid,  to  which  I  had  lately  the  honour  of  being  invited. 

The  Haider  Pascha,  the  great  grassy  plain  on  which  it  took  place, 
is  situated  on  the  hilly  shore  of  the  Asiatic  Bosphorus,  in  the  rear  of 
the  towns  of  Chalcedon  and  Scutari,  which  as  you  know  pass  for 
suburbs  of  Constantinople.  It  lies  to  the  left^  behind  the  hill  of 
Scutari,  and  has  a  prospect  not  directly  upon  the  landing-place^  but 
in  a  slanting  direction  towards  the  sea  near  the  Prince's  Islands. 

On  the  appointed  day,  a  whole  army  of  green  tents  was  arranged 
in  the  most  beautiful  order,  with  the  opening  towards  the  Bosphorus, 
for  sake  of  the  cool  breezes.  The  Hill  of  Scutari,  open  on  three 
sidesy  was  especially  appropriated  for  the  discharge  of  rockets  and 
firing ;  and  on  the  verdant  level  was  to  be  the  place  of  the  Sultan's 
kios^  and  that  of  the  famous  table  tent,  which  cost  Sultan  Mahmud 
a  million  and  a  half  piastres,  and  may  be  looked  on  as  the  ark  of  the 
covenant  between  Islam  and  Christendom. 

Whoever  seeks  the  favour  of  the  Christians  must  of  course,  before  all 
things,  give  them  plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  and  the  feast  of  the  circum- 
cision c^  the  sultan's  two  elder  sons,  offered  a  favourable  opportunity 
for  drawing  closer  the  bonds  of  friendship  in  good  occidental  fashion. 
As  the  father  of  the  great  Sesostris  caused  all  the  boys  in  Egypt 
bom  on  the  same  day  as  his  son  to  be  reared  at  the  royal  cost,  so 
all  sons  of  Mussulman  parents  born  within  the  la^  ten  years  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Constantinople  and  the  Bosphorus,  and  who  had  not 
yet  received  sacrament  of  Islam,  were  now  to  do  so  at  the  charge  of  the 
sultan.  Eight  thousand  boys  were  inscribed  and  accommodated  in  a 
new  and  wdl-arranged  wooden  building,  furnished  with  nine  hundred 
beds ;  and,  in  addition  to  the  necessary  expenses,  and  a  daily  allow- 
ance of  two  hundred  piastres,  each  boy  was  presented  with  a  new 
robe  as  a  baptismal  gif^.  Five  steam  vessels  were  employed  from 
rooming  to  evening,  in  bringing  over  the  public,  all  at  the  imperial 
charge,  and  with  a  care  of  which  we  in  Europe  have  no  idea,  other 
boats  made  the  round  from  San  Stefano  to  the  Black  Sea,  to  collect 
the  boys  with  their  parents  or  relations,  and  carry  them  back  again 
laden  with  the  royal  gifb.  Three  times  a  day  there  were  discharges  of 
artillery,  and  at  sunset  began  the  fiery  rain  of  many  coloured  rocket?^ 
and  countless  lamps  glittered  on  the  Haider  Pascha and  along  the  shores 
of  the  tepid  Bosphorus  as  far  as  Bujukdere.  The  whole  body  of  officials, 
from  the  Grand  Vizier  to  the  lowest  servant  in  a  public  office,  became, 
for  the  time,  dwellers  in  tents  and  the  sultan's  guests.  Including  the 
immediate  servants  of  the  sultan,  and  the  guard  on  duty,  not  less,  it 
is  said,  than  one  hundred  thousand  men  were  entertained  by  the 
imperial  host.  *^  Ad  quid  perditio  heec  ? "  What  upon  earth  was 
the  use  of  all  this  waste  of  rockets^  powder,  rice,  and  fiour,  asks  some 


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122  A   F&TE   CHAMP&TRE 

finance  Iscariot  of  the  West  ?  Thirty  millions  of  piastres  (seven  and 
a  half  millions  of  francs).  What  a  horrible  waste  cries  some  Western 
child  of  Mammon,  devouring  with  greedy  glance  all  this  oriental 
magnificence. 

On  the  2drd  Sept.,  at  two  o'clock,  the  whole  diplomatic  corps,  with 
their  secretaries  and  interpreters,  were  invited  to  an  imperial 
banquet^  and  **  by  particular  desire,  all  in  full  puflF/'  All  that  vanity 
has  invented  from  Lisbon  to  Teheran,  to  disguise  the  poverty  of  the 
inside  by  the  splendour  of  the  out,  was  put  in  requisition  by  the 
different  representatives  of  western  majesty.  Thirty  of  the  highest 
Turkish  dignitaries,  resplendent  in  diamonds  and  gold  embroidery, 
accompanied  them.  What  a  constellation  of  glories — ^how  their  dia- 
monds flashed  back  the  radiance  of  the  sun  I  As  ill  luck  would  have 
it,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  splendour,  a  tremendous  storm  burst  over 
the  Pontus  at  midnight ;  its  violence  was  most  unusual  even  on  the 
Bosphorus.  As  for  the  dinner,  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  although 
so  many  of  the  guests  had  arrived;  the  tents  were  flooded,  the 
viands  completely  spoiled,  and  the  plain  of  Haider  Pascha  became  an 
impassable  swamp.  In  the  hope  of  better  fortune,  a  second  day,  the 
28th,  was  appointed.  Four  steam  vessels,  a  Russian,  an  English,  and 
an  Austrian  Lloyd's  started  together  from  Bujukdere.  To  revenge 
the  former  disappointment,  Messieurs,  the  diplomatists,  were  more 
magnificent  than  ever.  The  rivalship  between  the  House  of  Bour- 
bon and  the  House  of  Hapsburg  dates,  as  is  well-known,  from  above 
three  hundred  years  ago,  and  although  now,  in  more  peaceful  fashion 
than  of  yore,  the  old  spirit  is  ready  to  break  out  on  every  occasion. 
The  French  had  an  engine  of  two  hundred  horse-power  stronger  than 
the  Austrian,  and  had  set  off*  full  ten  minutes  sooner ;  luckily,  the 
Imperatore  in  which  we  had  embarked,  was  one  of  the  best  of  Lloyd's 
sailers  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  the  captain  a  picked  man.  We 
passed  our  panting  rival  triumphantly,  and  reached  the  anchoring- 
place  considerably  before  her.  But  alas  I  it  was  a  barren  victory! 
We  lay  ofi*  the  shore  and  beheld  the  long  array  of  green  tents,  the 
wooden  amphitheatre,  the  plane-trees,  and  the  curious  crowd  waiting 
to  feast  their  eyes  on  the  glory  of  the  West  The  officer  appointed 
to  introduce  the  ambassadors,  was  waiting  to  receive  us,  and  carriages 
and  horses  4n  superfluity  were  ready  for  our  conveyance. 

"  But  the  gods,"  says  Herodotus,  '*  are  envious  of  the  happiness  of 
mortals."  The  wicked  clouds  were  in  waiting  also.  The  landing  be- 
gan with  the  strictest  order  and  etiquette.  The  internuncio's  boat, 
with  its  teo  gondoliers  in  scarlet  and  white,  had  landed  its  first  cargo, 
and  our  turn  was  coming,— when,  crash!  down  came  the  tempest 
from  the  Balkan,  with  a  howl  and  a  roar,  the  thunder  booming  heavily, 
the  lightnings  flashing  vividly  on  Chalcedon,  and  the  clouds  empty- 
ing a  second  deluge  on  the  glittering  diplomatists.  How  the  crowd 
scampered  1  and  how  the  bestarred  and  be-ordered  gentry  scrambled 
into  the  carriages !  Some  Turkish  women  lost  their  veils  in  their  flight, 
and  white  and  black-plumed  diplomatic  hats  were  the  sport  of  the  piti- 
less wind ;  some  axle  trees  broke,  some  of  the  riders  tumbled,  and — 
tell  it  not  inGath — more  than  one  representative  of  a  Lord's  anointed 
kissed  the  slimy  plain  of  Haider  Pascha  in  their  white  kerseymere 
pantaloons.  An  occasional  watery  gleam  of  sunshine  awakened  our 
hopes  only  to  mock  them  ;  and  the  lengthened  faces  and  forlorn  toi- 


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IN   CONSTANTINOPLE.  123 

lettes  that  at  last  presented  themselves  where  the  Turkish  grandezza 
awaited  them  in  solemn  tranquillity  may  be  better  imagined  than  de- 
scribed. 

The  meadow  on  which  stood  the  sultan's  kiosk^  the  theatre  for  the 
chief  actors  in  the  ceremony,  and  the  great  table-tent  was  en- 
closed on  three  sides.  On  the  fourth  the  entrance  was  guarded  by  a 
lieutenant-general  and  his  battalion  in  battle  array.  The  long  corri- 
dor, leading  to  the  hall  of  audience,  supported  on  columns,  and  in 
which  was  placed  the  orchestra,  was  well  covered  with  matting  and 
carpets ;  the  temporary  audience-chamber  itself  abundantly  provided 
with  tables,  sofas,  chairs,  and  divans ;  and  on  either  side  of  the  en- 
trance stood  a  file  of  the  palace  guards,  flaming  in  scarlet  and  gold, 
with  their  scarlet  tchakos  adorned,  in  addition  to  their  gold  edging,  by 
a  long  green  plume  resembling  a  palm  branch,  and  holding  long  gilded 
halberts  in  their  hands. 

Nearly  an  hour  was  spent  in  mutual  compliments  and  fine  speeches, 
before  tlie  thunder  of  the  artillery  announced  the  approach  of  the 
sultan.  At  last  the  heavily  embroidered,  silver-fringed,  blue  silk 
curtain  was  raised.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps,  Chusun  Pascha,  little, 
old,  fat,  and  blue-eyed,  was  seated  on  a  chair,  to  await  his  clients  till 
the  audience  was  over.  Chusun  Pascha,  full  of  riches  and  honours 
as  of  years  (he  is  full  eighty),  has  a  smile  for  every  one ;  and  if  his 
hair  and  beard  were  not  grey,  might  serve  as  a  model  for  the  head  of 
Antinous.  He  has  no  longer  strength  enough  to  mount  steps,  or 
to  stand  for  any  length  of  time ;  yet  he  never  fails  to  be  present  at 
a  grand  ceremonial,  and  is  the  only  Turkish  grandee  who  has  the 
right  of  sitting  in  the  sultan's  palace,  or,  as  some  say,  even  in  the 
imperial  presence. 

Since  the  reforms  began  under  Mahmud  II.,  the  sultan  stands  when 
he  gives  audience ;  and,  with  the  exception  of  some  arabesques  on 
the  walls,  and  blue  silk  hangings  to  the  window,  there  was  no  furni- 
ture whatever  in  the  room.  A  semicircle  was  formed,  stretching  from 
one  side  to  the  other,  by  the  diplomatic  corps  and  the  Turkish  digni- 
taries. The  sultan  entered  from  a  side  cabinet,  and  stood  still  before 
part  of  the  circle  formed  by  his  own  subjects;  and  AH  Efiendi,  mi- 
nister for  foreign  affairs,  interpreted,  with  every  sign  of  the  deepest 
reverence,  the  words  that  fell  from  the  royal  lips  to  the  dean  of  the 
diplomatic  body,  this  time  the  French  ambassador.  No  doubt  his 
majesty  had  his  answer  ready  to  the  stereotyped  civilities  of  the 
West,  and  has  probably  repeated  it  scores  of  times.  The  double  mis- 
hap of  the  weather  necessitated  a  few  civil  phrases  in  addition  to  the 
usual  form.  In  spite  of  the  formality  of  the  expressions,  we  were  all 
most  anxious  to  hear  the  sound  of  the  sultan's  voice.  Unluckily,  this 
was  no  easy  matter.  While  in  the  Persian  imperial  audience-cham- 
ber people  bawl  at  the  shah,  at  ten  paces'  distance,  in  Stamboul  sove- 
reign and  servant  spoke  in  so  low  a  tone,  that  they  were  scarcely  au- 
dible at  three.  To  make  amends,  our  western  curiosity  was  gratified 
by  a  most  satisfactory  stare  at  the  eastern  potentate. 

Abd-ul-Meschid  is  above  the  middle  height,  broad-shouldered  and 
finely  shaped,  with  the  youthful  luxuriance  and  fulness  of  form  on 
which  the  Asiatic  eye  is  so  well  pleased  to  rest ;  and  his  natural  ad- 
vantages were  further  set  off  by  the  elegant  simplicity  of  a  close-fit- 
ting dark  blue  surtout,  embroidered  on  the  seams  with  gold,  white 


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124 


LOVE  S   DESERTION. 


paDtaloons,  and  polished  European  chaussure.  Notwithstanding  some 
traces  of  the  small-pox^  his  face  has  much  manly  beauty,  with  its 
high  forehead^  finely  arched  brows,  small  mouth,  and  straight,  well- 
formed  nose.  The  sultan  has  nothing  of  the  look  of  premature  decay 
so  oflen  spoken  of  in  Europe ;  but  in  spite  of  his  Caucasian  blood 
by  the  mother's  side,  Abd-ul-Meschid  has  the  olive-tmted  skin  of  his 
Turcoman  ancestors.  His  profile  is  very  handsome ;  the  moustache 
is  short  and  thick,  and  his  whiskers  and  beard  kept  within  due  bounds. 
His  solitaire  was  a  large  diamond  as  big  as  a  pigeon's  egg.  Sultan 
Abd-ul-Meschid  is  twenty-three  years  old,  and,  though  not  disinclin- 
ed to  pleasure,  capable  of  severe  labour,  and  is  undeniably  one  of  the 
best-intentioned  princes  of  our  time.  At  the  end  of  the  ceremony, 
Baron  Bourgueney  and  Count  Sturmer  presented  some  strangers  ac- 
cidentally at  Constantinople,  and  who  had  also  received  invitations 
through  the  minister  of  foreign  affairs.* 

In  private  audiences  the  sultan  speaks  to  individuals,  a  condescen- 
sion not  permitted  by  Turkish  etiquette  on  public  occasions.  With- 
out saying  a  word,  his  majesty  fixes  his  eyes  on  the  person  presented, 
and  that  is  a  sultan's  greeting,  and,  according  to  Asiatic  notions,  a 
signal  favour. 

On  dismissing  us,  the  sultan  and  some  of  his  great  men  remained 
standing  and  motionless,  till  the  last  of  the  glittering  throng  had 
vanished. 

*  Le  Ministre  dei  affaires  ^trangeres,  par  ordre  de  Sa  Majesty  Impeiiale  le  Sul- 
tan,  prie  Mod.  — —  de  vouloir  bien  assister  au  diner,  qui  aura  lieu  Jeudi 
prochain,  23  Septembre,  ft  Haider  Pascha,  a  huit  heures  k  la  Turque. 


L  O  V  E'S      DESERTION. 


A  MELANCHOLY  FACT. 


BT    ALFRED    CEOWQUILL. 


Love  was  bom  one  Jovous  evening. 
In  a  glance  from  Julians  eye, 

And  I  found  myself  ere  morning, 
Doomed  her  willing  slave  to  sigh. 

Darkening  clouds  fell  o*er  each  moment 
Not  enlivened  by  her  smile. 

Or  that  graceful  fairy  figure, 
Stealing  all  my  peace  tlie  while. 

Angelic,  pure,  ethereal ! 

Heavens !  she  was  all  divine. 
Yet  I  dared — a  common  mortal — 

Hope,  kind  fate,  and  she  was  mine. 

Life  was  changed,  for  all  was  golden, 
Her  halo  shed  its  lustre  round ; 

This  indeed  was  pure  elysium, 
H^»piiie«8  on  earth  was  found. 


Love  lay  down  upon  our  threshold. 
Smiling  all  the  livelong  day. 

In  a  love-knot  tied  his  pinions, 
Kesolved  to  never  fly  away. 

But,  fatal  truth,  one  morning  early. 
Love  had  lost  some  little  grace. 

He  frowned  and  sulked,  and  siily  pointed 
To  my  charmer's  dirty  face. 

Next  day  I  found  Love  very  poorly 
With  a  horrid  touch  of  vapours, 

For  he  *d  seen  my  lovely  angel 
Come  down,  in  her  hair-curl  papers. 

Incensed,  he  packed  his  bow  and  arrows. 
And  left  the  place  without  a  sigh. 

For  she  breakfasted  next  morning, 
Without  stays,  and  cap  awry! 


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125 


THE  SIX  DECISIVE  BATTLES  OP  THE  WORLD. 

BT   PR0FE880B    CBEAST. 

^  Tboie  few  battles  of  which  a  contrary  event  would  hare  essentially  varied  the 
drama  of  the  world  in  all  its  subsequent  scenes/* — Uallak. 

No.  II.— DEFEAT  OF  THE  ATHENIANS  AT  SYRACUSE. 

^  The  Romans  knew  not,  and  oould  not  know,  how  deeply  the  greatness  of  their 
own  posterity,  and  the  fate  of  the  whole  Western  worlds  were  involved  in  the  de- 
struction of  the  fleet  of  Athens  in  the  harbour  of  Syracuse.  Had  that  great  ex- 
pediticm  proved  victorious,  the  energies  of  Greece  during  the  next  eventful  cen- 
tury would  have  found  their  field  in  the  West  no  less  than  in  the  East ;  Greece 
and  not  Rome  might  have  conquered  Carthage ;  Greek  instead  of  Latin  might 
hare  been  at  this  day  the  principal  element  of  the  language  of  Spain,  of  France, 
and  of  Italy ;  and  the  laws  of  Atiiens,  rather  than  of  Rome,  might  be  the  founda- 
tion of  the  law  of  the  civilised  world." — Arnold. 

Fbw  cities  have  undergone  more  memorable  sieges  during  ancient 
and  mediseval  times  tlian  has  the  city  of  S3rracuse.  Athenian^  Car- 
thaginian, Roman,  Vandal,  Byzantine,  Saracen,  and  Norman,  have  in 
turns  beleaguered  her  walls ;  and  the  resistance  which  she  success- 
fully opposed  to  some  of  her  early  assailants,  was  of  the  deepest  im- 
portance, not  only  to  the  fortunes  of  the  generations  then  in  being, 
but  to  all  the  subsequent  current  of  human  events.  To  adopt  the 
eloauent  expressions  of  Arnold  respecting  the  check  which  she  gave 
to  tne  Carthaginian  arms, "  Syracuse  was  a  breakwater,  which  God's 
providence  raised  up  to  protect  the  yet  immature  strength  of  Rome." 
And  her  triumphant  repulse  of  the  great  Athenian  expedition  against 
her  was  of  even  more  wide-spread  and  enduring  importance.  It 
forma  a  decisive  epoch  in  the  strife  for  universal  empire,  in  which  all 
the  great  states  of  antiquity  successively  ^igaged  and  failed. 

The  present  city  of  Svracuse  is  a  place  of  little  or  no  military 
strength;  as  the  fire  of  artiUery  from  the  neighbouring  heights 
would  almost  completely  command  it.  But  in  ancient  warfare  its 
position,  and  the  care  bestowed  on  its  walls,  rendered  it  formidably 
strong  against  the  means  of  ofience  which  then  were  employed  by 
besieging  armies. 

Tl:^  andent  dty,  in  its  most  prosperous  times,  was  chiefly  built 
on  the  knob  of  land  which  projects  into  the  sea  on  the  eastern  coast 
of  Sicily,  between  two  bays ;  one  of  which,  to  the  north,  was  called 
the  Bay  of  Thapsus,  while  the  southern  one  formed  the  great  har- 
bour of  the  dty  of  Syracuse  itself.  A  small  island,  or  peninsular 
(for  such  it  soon  was  rendered,)  lies  at  the  south-eastern  extremity 
of  this  knob  of  land,  stretching  almost  entirelv  across  the  mouth  of 
the  great  harbour,  and  rendering  it  nearly  ]«ia-locked.  This  island 
comprised  the  original  settlement  of  the  first  Greek  colonists  from 
Corinth,  who  founded  Syracuse  2500  years  ago ;  and  the  modem 
dty  has  shrunk  again  into  these  primary  limits.  But,  in  the  fifth 
century  before  our  era,  the  growing  wealth  and  population  of  the 
Syracusans  had  led  them  to  occupy  and  include  witnin  their  dty- 
walls  portion  afler  portion  of  the  mainland  lying  next  to  the  litUe 
isle,  so  that  at  the  time  of  the  Athenian  expedition  the  seaward  part 


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126         THE   SIX   DECISIVE  BATTLES  OF   THE  WORLD. 

of  the  knob  of  land  recently  spoken  of  was  built  over,  and  fortified 
from  bay  to  bay,  and  constituted  the  larger  part  of  Syracuse. 

The  landward  wall,  therefore,  of  this  district  of  the  city,  traversed 
this  knob  of  land,  which  continues  to  slope  upwards  from  the  sea^ 
and  which  to  the  west  of  the  old  fortifications,  (that  is,  towards  the 
interior  of  Sicily,)  rises  rapidly  for  a  mile  or  two,  but  diminishes  in 
width,  and  finally  terminates  in  a  long  narrow  ridge,  between  which 
and  Mount  Hybfa  a  succession  of  chasms  and  uneven  low  ground  ex- 
tends. On  each  flank  of  this  ridge  the  descent  is  steep  and  precipi- 
tous from  its  summits  to  the  strips  of  level  land  that  lie  immediately 
below  it,  both  to  the  south-west  and  north-west. 

The  usual  mode  of  assailing  fortified  towns  in  the  time  of  the  Pe- 
loponnesian  war  was  to  build  a  double-wall  round  them,  sufficiently 
strong  to  check  any  sally  of  the  garrison  from  within,  or  any  attack 
of  a  relieving  force  from  without.  The  interval  within  the  two 
walls  of  the  circumvallation  was  roofed  over,  and  formed  barracks, 
in  which  the  besiegers  posted  themselves,  and  awaited  the  effects  of 
want  or  treachery  among  the  besieged  in  producing  a  surrender. 
And,  in  every  Greek  city  of  those  days,  as  in  every  Italian  republic 
of  the  middle  ages,  the  rage  of  domestic  sedition  between  aristo- 
crats and  democrats  ran  high.  Rancorous  refugees  swarmed  in  the 
camp  of  every  invading  enenxy ;  and  every  blockaded  city  was  sure 
to  contain  within  its  walls  a  body  of  intriguing  malcontents,  who 
were  eager  to  purchase  a  party-triumph  at  Uie  expense  of  a  national 
disaster.  Famine  and  faction  were  the  allies  on  whom  besiegers  re- 
lied. The  generals  of  that  time  trusted  to  the  operation  of  these 
sure  confederates  as  soon  as  they  could  establish  a  complete  block- 
ade. They  rarely  ventured  on  the  attempt  to  storm  any  fortified 
post.  For,  the  military  engines  of  antiquity  were  feeble  in  breach- 
ing masonry,  before  the  improvements  which  the  first  Dionysius  ef- 
fected in  the  mechanics  of  destruction  ;  and  the  lives  of  the  boldest 
and  most  highly-trained  spearmen  would,  of  course,  have  been  idly 
squandered  in  charges  against  unshattered  walls. 

A  city  built  upon  the  sea,  like  Syracuse  was  impregnable,  save  by 
the  combined  operations  of  a  superior  hostile  fleet,  and  a  superior 
hostile  army.  And  Syracuse,  from  her  size,  her  population,  and  her 
military  and  naval  resources,  not  unnaturally  thought  herself  secure 
from  finding  in  another  Greek  city  a  foe  capable  of  sending  a  sufficient 
armament  against  her  to  menace  her  with  capture  and  subjection. 
But,  in  the  spring  of  414  B.C.  the  Athenian  navy  was  mistress  of  her 
harbour,  and  the  adjacent  seas  ;  an  Athenian  army  had  defeated  her 
troops,  and  cooped  them  within  the  town ;  and  from  bay  to  bay  a 
blockading- wall  was  being  rapidly  carried  across  the  strips  of  level 
ground  and  the  high  ridge  outside  the  city  (then  termed  Epipole), 
which,  if  completed,  would  have  cut  the  Svracusans  off  from  all 
succour  from  the  interior  of  Sicily,  and  have  left  them  at  the  mercy 
of  the  Athenian  generals.  The  besiegers'  works  were  indeed,  unfin- 
ished ;  but  every  day  the  unfortified  interval  in  their  lines  grew  nar- 
rower, and  with  it  diminished  all  apparent  hope  of  safety  for  the 
beleaguered  town. 

Athens  was  now  staking  the  flower  of  her  forces,  and  the  accumu- 
lated fruits  of  seventy  years  of  glory,  on  one  bold  throw  for  the 
dominion  of  the  Western  world.  As  Napoleon  from  Mount  Coeur 
de  Lion  pointed  to  St.  Jean  d'Acre,  and  told  his  staff  that  the  cap- 


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II — DfiFfiAT  OP  THE  ATHENIANS  AT  SYRACUSE,  127 

tare  of  that  town  would  decide  his  destiny,  and  would  change  the 
hce  of  the  world ;  so,  the  Athenian  officers^  from  the  heights  of 
Epipolae,  must  have  looked  on  Syracuse^  and  felt  that  with  its  fall  all 
the  known  powers  of  the  earth  would  fall  beneath  them.  They  must 
have  felt,  also,  that  Athens,  if  repulsed  there,  must  pause  for  ever 
from  her  career  of  conquest^  and  sink  from  an  imperial  republic  into 
a  rained  and  subservient  community. 

At  Marathon,  the  first  in  date  of  the  Great  Battles  of  the  World, 
we  beheld  Athens  struggling  for  self-preservation  against  the  in- 
vading  armies  of  the  East.  At  Syracuse  she  appears  as  the  ambitious 
and  oppressive  invader  of  others.  In  her,  as  in  other  republics  of 
old  and  of  modern  times,  the  same  energy  that  had  inspired  the  most 
heroic  efibrts  in  defence  of  the  national  independence,  soon  learned 
to  employ  itself  in  daring  and  unscrupulous  schemes  of  self-aggran« 
dizement  at  the  expense  of  neighbouring  nations.  In  the  interval 
between  the  Persian  and  the  Peloponnesian  wars  she  had  rapidly 
grown  into  a  conquering  and  dominant  state,  the  chief  of  a  thousand 
tributary  cities,  and  the  mistress  of  the  largest  and  best-manned 
navy  that  the  Mediterranean  had  yet  beheld.  The  occupations  of 
her  territorv  by  Xerxes  and  Mardonius,  in  the  second  Persian  war, 
had  forced  her  whole  population  to  become  mariners ;  and  the  fflo- 
rions  results  of  that  strug^e  confirmed  them  in  their  zeal  for  their 
country's  service  at  sea.  The  voluntary  suffrage  of  the  Greek  cities 
of  the  coasts  and  islands  of  the  ^gean  first  placed  Athens  at  the 
head  of  the  confederation  formed  for  the  further  prosecution  of  the 
war  against  Persia.  But  this  titular  ascendency  was  soon  converted 
by  her  into  practical  and  arbitrary  dominion.  She  protected  them 
from  the  Persian  power,  which  soon  fell  into  decrepitude  and  decay, 
bat  she  exacted  in  return  implicit  obedience  to  herself.  She  claffmed 
and  enforced  a  prerogative  of  taxing  them  at  her  discretion ;  and 
proudly  refused  to  be  accountable  for  her  mode  of  expending  their 
supplies.  Remonstrance  against  her  assessments  was  treated  as  fac- 
tious disloyalty ;  and  refusal  to  pay  was  promptly  punished  as  re- 
volt. Permitting  and  encouraging  her  subject  allies  to  furnish  all 
their  contingents  in  money^  instead  of  part  consisting  of  ships  and 
men,  the  sovereign  republic  gained  the  double  object  of  traimng  her 
own  citizens  by  constant  and  well-paid  service  in  her  fleets,  and  of 
seeing  her  confederates  lose  their  skiU  and  discipline  by  inaction, 
and  become  more  and  more  passive  and  powerless  under  her  yoke. 
Their  towns  were  generally  dismantled,  while  the  imperial  city  her- 
self was  fortified  with  the  greatest  care  and  sumptuousness :  tne  ac- 
cumulated revenues  from  her  tributaries  serving  to  strengthen  and 
adorn  to  the  utmost  her  havens,  her  docks,  her  arsenals,  her  theatres, 
and  her  shrines ;  and  to  array  her  in  that  plenitude  of  architectural 
magnificence,  the  ruins  of  which  still  attest  the  intellectual  grandeur 
of  the  age  and  people^  which  produced  a  Pericles  to  plan,  and  a 
Phidias  to  perform. 

All  republics  that  acquire  supremacy  over  other  nations  rule 
them  selfishly  and  oppressively.  There  is  no  exception  to  this  in 
either  ancient  or  moaern  times.  Carthage,  Rome,  Venice,  Genoa, 
Florence,  Pisa,  Holland,  and  Republican  France,  all  tyrannized 
over  every  province  and  subject  state>  where  they  gained  authority. 
But  none  of  them  openly  avowed  their  system  of  doing  so  upon 
principle  with  the  candour  which  the  Athenian  republicans  dis- 


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128        THE  SIX   INCISIVE  BATTLES  OF  THE  WORLD. 

played,  wben  any  remonstrance  was  made  against  the  severe  ex- 
actums  which  they  imposed  upon  their  vassal  allies.  They  avowed 
that  thdr  empire  was  a  tyranny,  and  frankly  stated  that  they 
solely  trusted  to  force  and  terra*  to  uphold  it.  They  appealed 
to  what  they  called  *'  the  eternal  law  of  nature,  that  the  weak 
should  be  coerced  by  the  strong."*  Sometimes  they  stated,  and  not 
without  some  truth,  that  the  unjust  hatred  of  Sparta  against  them- 
selves forced  them  to  be  unjust  to  others  in  self-defence.  To  be 
safe,  they  must  be  powerful ;  and  to  be  powerful,  they  must  plunder 
and  coerce  their  neighbours.  They  never  dreamed  of  communicating 
any  franchise,  or  share  in  office,  to  their  dependents ;  but  jealously 
nuNK^lized  every  post  of  command^  and  all  politiod  and  judidid 
power  ;  exposing  themselves  to  every  risk  with  unflinching  gal- 
lantry ;  embarking  readily  in  every  ambitious  scheme ;  and  never 
suffering  difficulty  or  disaster  to  snake  their  tenacity  of  purpose ; 
in  the  hope  of  acquiring  unbounded  anpire  for  their  country,  and 
the  means  of  maintaining  each  of  the  30,000  citiaens^  who  made  up 
the  sovereign  republic,  in  exclusive  devotion  to  military  occupa* 
tions,  or  to  those  brilliant  sciences  and  arts  in  which  Athens  already 
had  reached  the  meridian  of  intellectual  splendour. 

She  had  hitherto  safely  defied  the  hatred  and  hostility  of  Sparta, 
and  of  Corinth,  Thebes,  and  the  other  Greek  states  that  still  adhered 
to  Lacedasmon  as  the  natural  head  of  Greece ;  and  though  entangled 
in  a  desperate  war  at  home,  which  was  scarcdy  suspended  for  a  time 
by  a  hollow  truce,  Athens  now  had  despatched  *'  the  noblest  arma- 
ment ever  yet  sent  out  by  a  free  and  civilised  commonwealth,"  to 
win  her  frtAt  conquests  m  the  Western  seas.  With  the  capture  of 
Syracuse  all  Sicily,  it  was  hoped,  would  be  secured.  Carthage  and 
Italy  were  next  to  be  attacked.  With  large  levies  of  Iberian  mer- 
cenaries she  then  meant  to  overwhelm  her  Peloponnesian  enemies. 
The  Persian  monarchy  lay  in  hopeless  imbecility,  inviting  Gh-eek  in- 
vasion; nor  did  the  known  world  contain  the  power  wat  seemed 
capable  of  diecking  the  growing  might  of  Athens,  if  Syracuse  once 
could  be  hers. 

The  national  historian  of  lUmie  has  left  us,  as  an  episode  of  his 
great  work,  a  disquisition  on  the  probable  ejfects  that  would  have 
followed  if  Alexander  the  Great  had  invaded  Italy.  Posterity  has 
generally  regarded  that  disquisition  as  proving  Livy's  patriotism 
more  strongly  than  his  impartiality  or  acuteness.  Vet,  right  or 
wronff,  the  speculations  of  the  Roman  writer  were  directed  to  the 
consideration  of  a  very  remote  possibility.  To  whatever  age  Alex- 
ander's lifemight  have  been  prolonged,  the  East  would  have  furnished 
full  occupation  for  his  martial  ambition,  as  well  as  for  those  schemes 
of  commercial  grandeur  and  imperial  amalgamation  of  nations,  in 
which  the  truly  great  qualities  olf  his  mind  loved  to  display  them- 
selves. With  his  death  the  dismemberment  of  his  empire  among  his 
generals  was  certain,  even  as  the  dismemberment  of  Napoleon's 
empire  among  his  marshals  would  certainly  have  ensued,  if  he  had 
been  cut  off*  in  the  zenith  of  his  power.  Rome,  also,  was  far  weaker 
when  the  Athenians  were  in  Sicily,  than  she  was  a  century  after- 
wards  in  Alexander's  time.  There  can  be  little  doubt  but  that  Rome 
would  have  been  blotted  out  from  the  independent  powers  of  the 

•  'Aii  umiufrHrH  w  ^rr*r  i^»  %ufit^»tTt^»v  mmnl^yigim^  ThuC.  1. 77. 

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n. — DEFEAT  OF  THE  ATHENIANS  AT  SYRACUSE.   129 

West,  had  she  been  attacked  at  the  end  of  the  fifth  centurj,  b.  o.^  by 
an  Athenian  army,  largely  aided  by  Spanish  mercenaries,  and 
flushed  with  triumphs  over  Sicily  and  Africa;  instead  of  the 
collision  between  her  and  Greece  having  been  deferred  until  the  lat- 
ter had  sunk  into  decrepitude,  and  the  Roman  Mars  had  acquired 
the  fall  vigour  of  manhood. 

The  Syracusans  themselves,  at  the  time  of  the  Peloponnesian  war, 
were  a  biold  and  turbulent  democracy,  tyrannizing  over  the  weaker 
Greek  cities  in  Sicily,  and  trving  to  gain  in  that  island  the  same  ar- 
Intrary  supremacy  which  Athens  maintained  along  the  eastern  coast 
of  the  Mediterranean.     In  numbers  and  in  spirit  they  were  fully 
equal  to  the  Athenians,  but  far  inferior  to  them  in  military  and 
naval  discipline.     When  the  probability  of  an  Athenian  invasion 
was  first  publicly  discussed  at  Syracuse,  and  efforts  made  by  some 
of  the  wiser  citizens  to  improve  the  state  of  the  National  Defences, 
and  prepare  for  the  impending  danger,  the  rumours  of  coming  war, 
and  the  proposals  for  preparation  were  received  by  the  mass  of  the 
Sjrracusans  with  scornful  incredulity.    The  speech  of  one  of  their 
popular  orators  is  preserved  to  us  in  Thucydides,*  and  many  of  its 
topics  might,  by  a  slight  alteration  of  names  and  details,  serve  admi- 
rably for  the  party  among  ourselves  at  present,  which  opposes  the 
angmentadon  of  our  forces,  and  derides  the  idea  of  our  being  in  any 
peril  from  the  sudden  attack  of  a  French  expedition.     The  Syracu- 
San  orator  told  his  countrymen  to  dismiss  with  scorn  the  visionary 
terrors  which  a  set  of  designing  men  among  themselves  strove  to  ex* 
dtey  in  order  to  get  power  and  influence  thrown  into  their  own 
hands.     He  told  uiem  that  Athens  knew  her  own  interest  too  well 
to  think  of  wantonly  provoking  their  hostility :  "Even  if  the  ene- 
mies were  to  come,"  said  he,  **so  distant  from  their  resources,  and 
opposed  to  such  a  power  as  ours,  their  destruction  would  he  easy 
and  inevitable.     Their  ships  will  have  enough  to  do  to  set  to  our 
island  at  all,  and  to  carry  such  stores  of  aU  sorts  as  will  be  needed. 
They  cannot,  therefore,  carry  besides  an  army  large  enough  to  cope 
with  such  a  population  as  ours.     They  will  have  no  fortified  place 
from  winch  to  commence  their  operations,  but  must  rest  them  on  no 
better  base  than  a  set  of  wretched  tents   and  such   means  as  the 
necessities  of  the  moment  will  allow  them.     But  in  truth  I  do  not 
believe  that   they   would   even  be   able   to  effect   a  disembarkation. 
Let  us,  therefore,  set  at  nought  these  reports  as  altogether  of  home- 
manufacture;  and  be  sure  that  if  any  enemy  does  cotne,  the  state  will 
know   how   to   defend    itself,  tn  a  manner  worthy  of  the  national 
honour." 

Such  assertions  pleased  the  Sjnracusan  assembly;  and  their 
counterparts  find  favour  now  among  some  portion  of  the  Eng- 
lish public.  But  the  invaders  of  Syracuse  came ;  made  good  their 
landrag  in  Sicily ;  and,  if  they  had  promptly  attacked  the  city  itself, 
the  S3rracusans  must  have  paid  the  penalty  of  their  self-sufficient 
carelessness  in  submission  to  the  Athenian  yoke.  But,  of  the  three 
generals  who  led  the  Athenian  expedition,  two  only  were  men  of 
ability,  and  one  was  most  weak  ana  incompetent.  Fortunately  for 
Syracuse,  the  most  skilful  of  the  three  was  soon  deposed  from  his 

*  Lib.  y  I.  Seo.  36,  st  ug,  Arnold's  edition.  I  have  almost  literally  transcribed 
some  of  the  marginal  epitomes  of  the  original  speech. 


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130         THE   SIX  DECISIVE   BATTLES   OF   THE  WORLD. 

command  by  a  factious  and  fanatic  vote  of  his  fellow-countrymen, 
and  the  other  competent  one,  Lamachus,  fell  early  in  a  skirmish : 
while,  more  fortunately  still  for  her,  the  feeble  and  vacillating  Nicias 
remained  unrecalled  and  unhurt,  to  assume  the  undivided  leadership 
of  the  Athenian  army  and  fleet,  and  to  mar  by  alternate  over-caution 
and  over-carelessness,  every  chance  of  success  which  the  early  part 
of  the  operations  offered.  Still,  even  under  him,  the  Athenians 
nearly  won  the  town.  They  defeated  the  raw  levies  of  the  Syracu- 
sans,  cooped  them  within  the  walls,  and,  as  before-mentioned,  almost 
effected  a  continuous  fortification  from  bay  to  bay  over  Epipolas,  the 
completion  of  which  would  certainly  have  been  followed  by  a  capi- 
tulation. 

An  assembly  of  the  Syracusans  had  actually  been  convened  to 
discuss  the  propriety  of  opening  negotiations  with  the  besiegers, 
when  the  first  galley  arrived  of  a  squadron  of  succour  which  the 
Peloponnesians  had  despatched  to  Syracuse,  and  which  the  culpable 
negligence  of  Nicias  had  not  even  endeavoured  to  intercept.  The 
bulk  of  the  relieving  force,  under  the  able  guidance  of  the  Spartan 
Gylippus,  landed  at  some  distance  from  Syracuse,  received  consider- 
able reinforcements  from  the  other  Siciliots,  and  turned  the  Athe- 
nian position  by  occupying  the  high  ground  in  the  extreme  rear  of 
Epipolae.  Gylippus  marched  through  the  unfortified  interval  of 
Nidas's  lines  into  the  besieged  town ;  and  joining  his  troops  with 
the  Syracusan  forces,  after  some  engagements  with  varying  success, 
gained  the  mastery  over  Nicias,  drove  the  Athenians  from  Epipolas, 
and  hemmed  them  into  a  disadvantageous  position  in  the  low  grounds 
near  the  great  harbour. 

The  attention  of  all  Greece  was  now  fixed  on  Syracuse ;  and  every 
enemy  of  Athens  felt  the  importance  of  the  owortunity  now  offered 
of  checking  her  ambition,  and,  perhaps,  of  striking  a  deadly  blow  at 
her  power.  Large  reinforcements  from  Corinth,  Thebes,  and  oth&r 
cities,  now  reached  the  Syracusans  ;  while  the  baffled  and  dispirited 
Athenian  general  earnestly  besought  his  countrymen  to  recall  him, 
and  represented  the  further  prosecution  of  the  siege  as  hopeless. 

But  Athens  had  made  it  a  maxim  never  to  let  difficulty  or  disaster 
drive  her  back  from  any  enterprise  once  undertaken,  so  long  as  she 
possessed  the  means  of  making  any  effort,  however  desperate,  for  its 
accomplishment.  With  indomitable  pertinacity  she  now  decreed  in- 
stead of  recalling  her  first  armament  from  before  Syracuse,  to  send 
out  a  second,  though  her  enemies  near  home  had  now  renewed  open 
warfare  asainsther,  and  by  occupying  a  permanent  fortification  in  ner 
territory,  nad  severely  distressed  her  population,  and  were  pressing 
her  with  almost  all  the  hardships  of  an  actual  siege.  She  still  was 
mistress  of  the  sea,  and  she  sent  forth  another  fleet  of  seventy  galleys, 
and  another  army,  which  seemed  to  drain  almost  the  last  reserves  of 
her  military  population,  to  try  if  Syracuse  could  not  yet  be  won,  and 
the  honour  of  the  Athenian  arms  be  preserved  from  the  stigma  of  a 
retreat.  Hers  was,  indeed,  a  spirit  that  might  be  broken  but  never 
would  bend.  At  the  head  of  this  second  expedition,  she  wisely 
placed  her  best  general,  Demosthenes,  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
officers  that  the  long  Peloponnesian  war  had  produced,  and  who^  if  he 
had  originally  held  the  Sicilian  command,  would  soon  have  brought 
Syracuse  to  submission.  His  arrival  before  that  city  restored  the 
superiority  to  the  Athenians  for  a  time  by  land  and  by  sea,  on  both  of 


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n. — DEFEAT  OP  THE  ATHENIANS  AT  SYRACUSE.         131 

which  elements  the  SyrmcuMuis  had  now  heen  victorioat  overthe 
dispirited  soldiers  and  mariners  who  served  under  Nicias* 

With  the  intuitive  decision  of  a  great  commander,  Demosthenes 
at  once  saw  that  the  possession  of  Epipolse  was  the  key  to  tt)e  pos- 
sessiim  of  Syracuse,  and  he  resolved  to  make  a  prompt  and  vigorous 
attempt  to  recover  that  position  while  his  force  was  unimpair^,  and 
the  consternation  which  its  arrival  had  produced  among  the  besieged 
remained  unabated.  The  Syracusans  and  their  allies  had  run  out  an 
oatwork  along  Epipolse  from  the  city  walls,  intersecting  the  fortified 
lines  of  drcumvallation  which  Nicias  had  commenced,  but  from 
which  he  had  been  driven  by  Gylippus.  Could  Demosthenes  suc- 
ceed in  storming  this  outworK,  and  in  re-establishing  the  Athenian 
troops  on  the  hi^h  ground,  he  might  fairly  hope  to  be  able  to  resume 
the  circumvallation  of  the  city,  and  become  the  conqueror  of  Syracuse. 

An  easily-repelled  attack  was  first  made  on  the  outwork  in  the 
day-time,  probably  more  with  the  view  of  blinding  the  besieged  to 
the  nature  of  the  main  operations,  than  with  any  expectation  of  suc- 
ceeding in  an  open  assault,  with  every  disadvantage  of  the  ground  to 
contend  against.  But,  when  the  darkness  had  set  in,  Demosthenes 
formed  his  men  in  columns,  each  soldier  taking  with  him  five  days' 
provisions,  and  the  engineers  and  workmen  of  the  camp  following 
the  troops  with  their  tools,  and  all  portable  implements  of  fortifica- 
tion, so  as  at  once  to  secure  any  advantage  of  ground  that  the  army 
might  gain.  Thus  equipped  and  prepared,  he  led  his  men  along  by 
the  foot  o£  the  southern  flank  of  Epipolae,  in  a  direction  towards  the 
interior  of  the  island,  till  he  came  immediately  below  the  narrow 
ridge  that  forms  the  extremity  of  the  high  ground  looking  west- 
ward. He  then  wheeled  his  vanguard  to  3ie  right,  sent  them 
rapidly  up  the  paths  that  wind  along  the  face  of  the  cliff,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  completely  surprising  the  Syracusan  outposts,  and  in 
placing  his  troops  fairly  on  the  extreme  summit  of  the  all-important 
EpipoTse.  Thence  the  Athenians  marched  eagerly  down  the  slope 
towards  the  town,  routing  some  Syracusan  detachments  that  were 
quartered  in  their  way,  and  vigorously  assailing  the  unprotected  side 
of  the  outwork.  All  at  first  favoured  them,  ^e  outwork  was  aban- 
doned by  its  garrison,  and  the  Athenian  engineers  began  to  dismantle 
it  In  vain  Gylippus  brought  up  fresh  troops  to  check  the  assault ; 
the  Athenians  broke  and  drove  them  back,  and  continued  to  press 
hotly  forward,  in  the  full  confidence  of  victory.  But,  amid  the  general 
consternation  of  the  Syracusans  and  their  confederates,  one  body  of  in- 
fantry stood  firm.  This  was  a  brigade  of  their  Bceotian  allies,  which  was 
posted  low  down  the  slopKe  of  Epipolae  outside  the  city  walls.  Coolly 
and  steadily  the  Boeotian  infantry  formed  their  line,  and,  undismayed 
by  the  current  of  flight  around  them,  advanced  against  the  advancing 
Athenians.  This  was  the  crisis  of  the  battle.  But  the  Athenian 
van  was  disorganised  by  its  own  previous  successes;  and,  yield- 
ing to  the  unexpected  charge  thus  made  on  it  by  troops  in  per- 
fect order,  and  of  the  most  obstinate  courage,  it  was  driven  back 
in  confusion  upon  the  other  divisions  of  the  army,  that  still  continued 
to  press  forward.  When  once  the  tide  was  thus  turned,  the  Syra- 
cusans passed  rapidly  from  the  extreme  of  panic  to  the  extreme  of 
vengeful  daring,  and  with  all  their  forces  they  now  fiercely  assailed 
the  embarrassed  and  receding  Athenians.  In  vain  did  the  ofiicers 
of  the  latter  strive  to  reform  their  line.     Amid  the  din  and  the 

YOh,  ZXIII.  L 


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132        THE  SIX  DEdSIYE  BATTLES  OF  THE  WOELD. 

shouting  of  the  fiffht^  and  Um  confusion  inseparable  upon  a  night 
engagement^  especially  one  where  many  thousand  combatants  were 
pent  and  whirled  together  in  a  narrow  and  uneven  area,  the  neces- 
sary manoeuvres  were  impracticable ;  and  thoush  many  companies 
still  foueht  on  desperately^  wherever  the  moomight  shewed  them 
the  semMance  of  a  £oe,  they  fought  without  concert  or  subordina- 
tion ;  and  not  unfirequently,  amid  die  deadly  chaos^  Athenian  troops 
assailed  each  other.  Keeping  their  ranks  close,  the  Syracusans  and 
their  allies  prest  on  a^nst  the  disorganised  masses  of  the  besiegers, 
and  at  length  drove  them,  with  heavy  slaurhter,  over  the  cliffs,  which 
an  hour  or  two  before  they  had  scaled  full  of  hope,  and  apparently 
certain  of  success. 

This  defeat  was  decisive  of  the  event  of  the  siege.  The  Athenians 
afterwards  struggled  only  to  protect  themselves  from  the  vengeance 
which  the  Syracusans  sought  to  wreak  in  the  complete  destmctioB  of 
their  invaders.  Never,  however,  was  vengeance  more  complete  and 
terrible.  A  series  of  sea-fights  followed,  in  which  the  Athenian 
galleys  were  utterly  destroy^  or  captured.  The  mariners  and  8(d- 
diers  who  escaped  death  in  disastrous  engagements,  and  a  vain  at- 
tempt to  force  a  retreat  into  the  interior  of  the  island,  became 
Srisoners  of  war ;  and  either  perished  miserably  in  the  Syracusan 
ungeons,  or  were  sold  into  slavery  to  the  very  men  whom  in  their 
pride  of  power  they  had  crossed  the  seas  to  enslave. 

All  danger  from  Athens  to  the  independent  nations  of  the  West 
was  now  for  ever  at  an  end.  She,  indeed,  continued  to  struggle 
against  her  combined  enemies  and  revolted  allies  with  unparalleled 
g^lantry;  and  many  more  y^ears  of  varying  warfare  passed  away 
before  she  surrendered  to  their  arms.  But  no  success  in  subsequent 
contests  could  ever  have  restored  her  to  the  pre-eminence  in  enter- 
prize,  resources,  and  maritime  skill,  which  the  had  acquired  befwe 
ner  fatal  reverses  in  Sicily.  Nor  among  the  rival  Greek  republics, 
whom  her  own  rashness  aicted  to  crush  her,  was  there  any  capable  of 
reor^^izinff  her  empire,  or  resuming  her  sdieroes  of  conquest.  The 
dominion  of  Western  Europe  was  left  for  Rome  and  Carthage  to  dis- 
pute two  centuries  later,  m  conflicts  still  more  terrible,  and  with 
even  higher  displays  of  military  daring  and  genius,  than  Athena 
had  witnessed  either  in  her  rise,  her  meridian,  or  her  falK 


SONG. 

Bt  the  dear  direr  Umet  o£  thy  heavenly  voice, 
By  the  Kparkling  blue  eyes  of  Uie  nudd  of  my  choice. 
By  thv  bright  sunny  ringlets,  were  I  on  a  throne, 
And  tnoQ  what  thoa  art,  I  should  make  thee  my  own. 

By  the  smile  on  thy  lip — by  the  bloom  on  thy  cheek — 
By  thy  \ock$  of  affection— the  words  thou  dost  speak — 
Bv  the  heart  warm  with  lore  in  that  bosom  of  snow, 
1  love  thee  mudi  more  than  thou  ever  can'st  know. 


I  love  thee—I  love  thee — ^what  can  I  say  more, 
Than  tell  what  I  Ve  told  thee  so  often  before ; 
While  others  may  court  thee,  may  flatter,  and  praise, 
Forget  not  our  younger  and  happier  days. 


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183 
CHARACTERISTICS  OP  THE  POET  GRAY. 

BT   B.   JB88B. 

*'  And  ye  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  hetgfau  th'  ezpanMs  below 

Of  grove»  of  lawn,  of  mead  surrey. 
Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  ^rvers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  sihrer-winding  way  s 

<*  Ah,  haroy  hills !  ah,  pleasing  shade ! 
Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 
Where  once  my  cardess  childhood  stray^, 
A  stranger  yet  to  pain  !'* 

Ev<RT  thing  ID  the  neighbourhood  of  Windsor  is  redolent  of  Gray. 
Here  his  joys  began,  and  his  sorrows  ended,  but  his  poetry  still 
breathes  its  inspirations  in  all  we  see  around. 

Perhaps  there  have  been  very  few  scenes  more  flattering  to  the 
genius  of  a  poet  than  the  one  exhibited  at  the  sale  of  Gray*s  manu- 
scripts, at  Evans's  auction-room  in  Bond  Street,  in  the  winter  of  1845. 
Every  scrap  of  his  writing  was  eagerly  bought  up.  His  Elegy,'  on 
one  sheet  of  paper,  was  purchased  for  one  hundred  pounds;  and  his 
Odes  for  one  hundred  guineas.  A  letter  sold  for  eleven  guineas ;  and 
almost  every  thing  else  in  proportion.  But  what  struck  me  more 
than  anything  else  at  the  sale  of  these  numerous  and  interesting  manu- 
scripts, was  die  fact  that,  from  neariy  his  earliest  boyhood  to  the  latest 
period  of  his  life,  everything  had  been  written  with  an  extreme  neat- 
ness, very  characteristic  of  the  poet.  Indeed  there  was  a  degree  of  ele- 
gance in  all  he  did,  and  all  he  wrote,  which,  perhaps,  has  never  been 
surpassed.  One  of  his  favourite  studies  was  Natural  History,  and 
this  is  shewn  by  the  marginal  notes  which  he  wrote  in  his  copy  of 
Linnaeus,  and  in  Hudson's  Flora  Anglica.  He  also  interleaved, 
and  almost  entirely  filled  the  tenth  edition  of  the  Systema  Naturae 
of  Linnseus  with  notes  and  observations.  He  appears  to  have  read 
Aristotle's  treatise  on  Zoology,  and  explained  some  difficult  passages 
in  it,  in  consequence  of  his  own  observations. 

It  was  evident,  also,  that  he  understood  all  the  rich  varieties  of 
Gothic  architecture,  which  be  probably  studied  in  his  youth  when  he 
was  abroad.  He  also  acquired  a  considerable  knowledge  of  heraldry, 
and  left  behind  him  many  genealogical  papers  which  prove  him  to 
have  become  master  of  the  subject. 

His  notes  in  the  catalogue  of  the  pictures  at  Wilton,  show  that 
he  had  a  fine  taste  for  painting,  and  his  sketches  not  only  in  the 
Systema  Naturse,  of  the  neads  of  birds,  and  of  insects,  both  in  their 
natural  size  and  magnified,  with  some  other  drawings  prove  that  he 
was  no  mean  proficient  in  the  art  of  drawing.  Nor  was  he  ignorant 
of  music,  if  we  may  judge  by  what  had  belonged  to  him,  and  which 
was  sold  with  his  books  and  manuscripts. 

Gardening  would  appear  to  have  been  a  favourite  amusement  of 
Gray's,  but  especially  floriculture ;  and  in  his  pocket  journals,  some  of 
which  were  sold,  he  noticed  the  opening  of  leaves  and  flowers,  as 

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134  THE  POET   GRAY. 

well  as  of  the  birds,  insects,  Ac,  seen  by  him  at  different  periods, 
and  much  of  his  time  must  have  been  passed  in  these  studies. 

But  on  much  smaller  matters  he  bestowed  attention.  A  friend  of 
mine  purchased  at  the  sale  of  his  library^  a  book  of  cookery,  in 
which  he  had  entered  observations  on  the  dishes  of  Mons.  St. 
Clouet  and  Mr.  W.  Verral,  and  which  the  poet  has  altered  and 
amended.  The  fly-leaves  are  filled  with  recipes  for  savory  stews 
and  hashes,  and  he  remarks  that  he  had  tried  one  and  found 
it  bad. 

Such  is  a  short  sketch  of  some  of  the  acquirements  of  Gray.  But 
it  is  in  his  poetry  that  we  trace  his  talents  and  genius :  and  how  much 
of  it  is  connected  with  this  neighbourhood  in  which  he  lived,  and 
how  much  has  he 'added  to  its  interest?  His  Churchyard,  as  Dr. 
Johnson  observed,  <<  abounds  with  images  which  find  a  mirror  in 
every  mind,  and  with  sentiments  to  which  every  bosom  returns  an 
echo."  It  may  also  be  said  of  Gray,  that  he  was  one  of  those  few 
persons  in  the  annals  of  literature,  who  did  not  write  for  the  sake  of 
profit;  he  evidently  shunned  the  idea  of  being  thought  an  author  by 
profession.  Whether  this  was  owing  to  a  certain  degree  of  pride,  to 
his  high  sense  of  honour,  or  to  his  good  breeding,  may  remain  a 
doubt,  but  he  certainly  did  not  seek  tor  advantage  from  his  literary 
pursuits. 

While  he  was  staying  with  his  relations  at  Stoke,  Gray  wrote 
and  sent  to  his  friend  West,  that  beautiful  Ode  on  Spring,  which 
begins — 

*^  Lo !  where  the  rosy  botom'd  hourg. 
Fair  Venus'  train,  appear, 
Disclose  the  lonif^  expecting  flowers, 
And  wake  the  purple  year  I"  &c. 

This  ode  he  sent,  as  soon  as  he  had  written  it,  to  Mr.  West,  but 
he  was  dead  before  the  letter  which  enclosed  it  had  arrived.  It  was 
returned  to  him  unopened.  This  Ode  contains  a  kind  of  presenti- 
ment of  the  death  of  one  so  much  beloved,  and  the  lines,  so  well- 
known  to  the  admirers  of  Gray,  are  extremely  pathetic  and  beautiful. 

Mr.  West  died  in  the  twenty-sixth  year  of  his  age,  and  this  cir- 
cumstance adds  a  double  interest  to  this  beautiful  ode. 

The  Ode  to  Adversity,  and  that  on  a  distant  prospect  of  Eton, 
were  both  of  them  written  within  three  months  after  the  death  of 
Mr.  West.  His  sorrow,  also,  for  this  event,  was  shown  in  a  very 
affectionate  sonnet,  which  concludes  thus — 

*'  I  fruitless  mourn  for  him  that  cannot  hear, 
And  weep  the  more,  because  I  weep  in  vain.** 

But  it  was  as  a  lover  of  nature— -of  these  little  incidents  in  rural  life 
—of  facts  and  circumstances  in  what  he  saw  around  him,  whether 
the  varied  scenery  of  Stoke,  the  "beetle  with  its  drowsy  hum," 
and  "  droning  flight/'  or  the  complaint  of  the  "  moping  owl,**  that 
Gray's  genius  pleases  most,  and  has  done  so  much  to  immortalize  his 
memory.  That  he  studied  nature,  and  wooed  her  charms  in  the  de- 
lightful neighbourhood  of  Stoke,  as  well  as  in  the  wilder  scenery  of 
Italy,  cannot  be  doubted.  In  fact,  his  mind  appeared  to  be  peculiarly 
adapted  to  enjoy  rural  scenes  and  rural  objects,  tinctured  as  it  was 
with  a  dislike  to  the  more  bustling  scenes  of  life,  and  this  induced 


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THE  POET   GRAY.  135 

a  voluntary  tecluaioD  from  the  world.  Under  such  circumstances^ 
nature  opened  to  him  resources  of  which  he  eagerly  availed  himself, 
and  which  probably  tended  more  than  any  thing  else  to  dispel  that 
dejectioo  of  spirits  and  mental  uneasiness  of  which  he  complains  in 
several  of  his  letters.  It  is,  indeed,  sad  to  think  that  a  man  of  such 
talenta  as  Gray,  with  so  many  acquirements,  with  such  virtues  and 
sodi  humanity,  blameless  in  his  life,  and  disinterested  in  all  his 
pursuits,  should  have  suffered  in  the  way  he  describes  himself  to 
have  done.  He  appears,  however,  to  have  met  death  with  great 
tranquillity. 

In  one  of  his  note-books,  there  is  a  slight  sketch  in  verse  of  his 
own  character.    It  was  written  in  1761. 

^  Too  poor  tor  m  bribe,  and  too  proud  to  importune^ 
He  had  not  the  method  of  making^a  fortune ; 
€}ould  love,  and  could  hate,  so  wat  thought  somewhat  odd ; 
No  rerj  great  wit,  he  believed  in  a  Ood. 
A  post  or  a  pension  he  did  not  desire, 
So  left  church  and  state  to  Charles  Townshend  and  squire.*' 

The  cause  of  Gray's  quarrel  with  Horace  Walpole  has  never 
been  satisfactorily  explained*  Various  causes  have  been  assigned  for 
it ;  but  I  recently  heard  one  mentioned,  which  is  sufficient  to  account 
for  the  silence  of  Gray^s  biographer  during  the  life-time  of  Walpole, 
when  the  memoirs  of  Gray  were  written,  and,  also,  for  the  unwilling- 
ueas  the  former  evinced  to  enter  into  the  subject,  except  by  charging 
himself  with  the  chief  blame.  The  fact,  I  have  been  assured,  was, 
that  Gray  had  threatened  to  acquaint  Sir  Robert  Walpole  with  his 
son's  extravagance  and  dissipation  when  they  were  travelling  together 
in  Italy,  and  that  Walpole,  hearing  he  would  do  this,  had  opened 
some  of  Gray's  letters.  Gray  very  properly  resented  this  as  a 
most  unjustifiable  act,  and  parted  ^om  his  companion.  This  will 
account  for  a  passage  in  the  manuscript  of  the  Rev.  W.  Cole,  who 
lived  in  terms  of  intimacy  with  Gray  during  the  latter  part  of  his  life. 
^When  matters,"  he  remarks,  <<were  made  up  between  Gray  and 
Walpde,  and  the  latter  asked  Gray  to  Strawberry  Hill,  when  he 
came,  he,  without  any  ceremony^  told  Walpole  that  he  came  to  wait 
on  him  as  civility  required,  but  by  no  means  would  he  ever  be 
there  on  the  terms  of  his  former  friendship,  which  he  had  totally 
cancelled." 

Mr.  Mitford  has  observed,  that  this  account  does  not  seem  at  all 
inconsistent  with  the  independence  and  manly  freedom  which  always 
accompanied  the  actions  and  opinions  of  Gray. 

I  am  aware  how  very  defective  this  short  notice  of  him  is ;  but, 
residing  in  the  neighbourhood  where  he  livedo  and  constantly  fre- 
quenting the  spot  where  his  remains  were  deposited,  I  could  not 
refrain  from  aading  mine  to  the  many  accounts  of  a  poet  so  greatly 
admired.  It  has  been  said  of  him,  that  he  joins  to  the  sublimity 
of  Milton,  the  elegance  and  harmony  of  Pope,  and  that  nothing  was 
wanting  to  render  him,  perhaps,  the  first  poet  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, but  to  have  written  a  little  more. 


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136 


ORIGIN  OF  THE  STORY  OP  BLUE  BEARD. 

BT   W.  0.  TATLOB^  LL.D. 

It  is  a  very  comraon,  but  a  very  erroneous  opinion  that  the  legend 
of  Blue  Beard  was  devised  by  the  Roman  Catholics,  as  a  satire  on 
Henry  VIIL,  and  that  iu  object  was  to  strengthen  the  ind^ation 
with  which  his  cruelty  to  his  wives  was  viewed  throughout  Europe. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  legend  which  can  afford  the  slightest  sup* 
port  to  such  a  theory;  the  manners  which  the  story  pourtrays^ 
describe  a  state  of  society  long  anterior  to  the  age  of  the  Tudort  { 
they  belong  to  a  time  when  the  murder  of  wives  needed  not  to 
shelter  itself  under  the  form  of  law,  the  hero  b  not  a  king  feel- 
ing something  of  the  control  which  nascent  public  opinion  imposes 
upon  despotism  ;  he  is  a  castellan  of  the  darkest  period  of  the  mid- 
dle ages,  when  the  only  check  on  the  tyranny  of  the  lords  of  castles 
was  the  chance  of  their  being  called  to  account  by  some  adventurous 
knight  errant,  who  undertook  to  redress  grievances  by  the  point  of 
his  lance,  and  the  edge  of  his  sword.  The  most  telling  incident  in 
the  story,  the  look  out  of  Sister  Anne  irom  the  tower  of  the  castle, 
evidently  fixes  the  date  in  the  age  of  knight  errantry;  Blue  Beard  is 
clearly  one  of  those  terrible  burgraves  whom  Victor  Hugo  has  so 
vividly  delineated,  or,  as  seems  to  be  probaUe,  he  is 

"  Knight  of  the  shire,  and  represents  them  all.** 

In  fact,  there  are  few  countries  in  western  Europe  whidi  do  not 
claim  the  equivocal  honour  of  having  produced  a  Blue  Beard,  and  we 
may  regard  the  tale  as  a  kind  of  concentrated  essence  of  several 
legends  and  traditions  relating  to  outrages  perpetrated  by  feudal 
lords  during  the  feeble  stage  of  monarchy,  when,  to  use  the  expres- 
sive language  of  the  sacred  historian,  it  might  be  said  of  ahnost 
every  country  in  Western  Europe,  *'at  this  time,  there  was  no 
king  in  Israel ;  every  man  did  that  which  seemed  right  in  his  own 
eyes." 

In  the  recent  development  of  provincial  literature  in  France* 
several  strange  and  interesting  local  legends  have  been  brought  to 
light,  which  throw  some  gleams  of  explanation  on  the  tales  that  have 
become  current  in  European  tradition.  Several  of  these  relate  to  a 
supposed  prototype  of  ^ue  Beard,  and  it  will  not  be  uninteresting  to 
glance  at  the  real  history  of  some  of  these  personages  as  illustrative 
of  the  state  of  society  in  that  age  of  chivalry,  the  disappearance 
of  which  is  so  deeply  lamented  by  certain  writers  of  sentimental 
romances. 

The  Angevin  Legend  has  the  first  claim  on  our  attention,  for  its 
advocates  can  point  out  a  castle  on  the  banks  of  the  river  between 
Angers  and  Nantes,  which  bears  the  name  of  Le  CMteau  de  Bathe 
JBleuCf  and  the  position  of  which  quite  accords  with  the  incidents  of 
the  legend.  The  true  name  of  the  ruin,  is  the  Castle  of  Champtoi^ ; 
it  is  situated  on  the  brow  of  a  hill  which  is  nearly  covered  with  the 
fragments  of  the  ancient  pile.  Its  appearance  seems  strongly  con- 
firmatory of  the  tale  told  by  the  peasantry,  that  it  was  destroyed  by 
a  thunderbolt,  and  that  its  gigantic  ruins  ought  to  be  regarded  as  a 


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arroBT  of  blue  beard.  137 

permsneDt  mooument  of  diviiie  vengeance.  The  lower  which  Sifter 
Anne  is  eopposed  to  have  ascended,  is  cloven  from  summit  to  base ; 
but  some  adventurons  climbers  who  have  ascended  the  ruins,  de- 
dare  that  it  commands  a  wide  extent  of  prospect,  and  that  from 
it  they  can  see  the  gates  of  Angers,  which  are  nine  or  ten  miles 
distant. 

In  the  fifteenth  century,  this  fortified  palace,  for  such,  from  its  ex- 
tent, it  appears  to  have  been,  belonged  to  Gilles  de  Retc,  Maraud  of 
France,  and  one  of  the  firmest  adherents  of  Charles  VII.  The  chro- 
nicles give  a  long  list  of  the  lordships  and  manors  which  were  united 
in  his  domain ;  they  assert  that  his  income  exceeded  one  hundred 
thousand  crowns  of  gold .  annually,  independent  of  die  large  booty 
he  collected  from  various  marauding  expeditions  against  the  sup- 
porters of  the  Plantagenets. 

Not  only  large  profits,  but  certain  feudal  honours  were  attached  to 
tkese  manors — honours  which,  in  our  day^  would  be  regarded  almost 
as  menial  services.  The  lords  of  four  manors  had  the  right  of  bear- 
ing the  litter  of  every  new  bishop  of  An^rs,  when  1^  made  his 
solnnn  entry  into  his  diocesa  With  cunous  minuteness,  it  was 
ordained  that  the  Lord  of  BuoUay  should  hold  the  right  pole  in,  and 
the  Lord  of  ChemiUe  the  left :  the  Lord  of  Gratecuisse  was  to  hold 
the  left  pole  in  the  rear,  having  for  assistant  on  his  right,  the  Lord 
of  Blou.  Now,  two  of  those  manors,  Gratecuisse  and  Buollay,  be- 
longed to  the  Lord  of  Ret%  and  we  have  not  been  able  to  discover 
how  he  contrived  to  perform  the  double  obligation  imposed  on  him. 
Our  researches  have,  however^  shown  that  great  importance  was  at- 
tached to  the  obligation,  finr  we  find  it  reamed  in  one  of  the  chro- 
aioles,  that  at  the  installation  into  his  bishopric  of  William  Lemaire, 
in  1290,  Almeric  de  Craon,  son  of  the  Lord  of  BuoUay,  claimed  to 
carry  the  pole  of  the  litter  in  place  of  his  father,  who  was  confined  to 
his  bed  by  some  dangerous  illness.  After  a  solemn  investigation, 
such  as  the  importance  of  the  question  required,  it  was  decided  that 
this  sacred  and  honourable  service  was  purely  persona],  and  that  as 
the  Lord  of  Buollay  could  not  render  it,  his  right  devolved  to  the 
Lord  of  Mathefelon.  This  decision  was  the  cause  of  mudi  grief  to 
Almeric  de  Craon ;  he  not  only  protested  against  it,  but  when  the 
procession  came  near,  he  mounted  on  the  shoulders  of  a  stout  archer, 
and  in  this  singular  guise,  assisted  to  support  the  episcopal  litter  into 
Angers. 

Gilles  de  Rets  had  barely  attained  his  majority,  when  he  entered 
en  his  rich  inheritance  of  a  castle  almost  as  extensive  as  a  town, 
numerous  lordships  and  manors,  a  princely  income,  and  the  right  to 
supfiort  two  poles  of  an  episcopal  litter.  He  was,  of  course*  sur- 
rounded by  flatterers  and  parasites,  who  stimulated  his  passions,  and 
encouraged  him  in  every  kind  of  extravagance,  from  which  they  were 
sure  to  derive  some  profit.  One  historian,  said  to  be  a  descendant  of 
this  potent  lord,  informs  us  that  the  most  sumptuous  part  of  his  esta- 
blishment was  his  chapel  and  chantry,  in  which  no  less  than  twenty- 
three  chaplains,  choristers,  and  clerks  were  en^^aged,  and  which  was 
fomished  with  two  portable  organs,  requiring  six  men  to  carry  them. 
The  service  in  this  chapel  was  conducted  with  all  the  splendour  and 
fonns  used  in  cathedrals,  and  the  Lord  de  Retz  sent  a  deputation  to 
the  Pope,  requesting  that  his  chaplains  should  be  allowed  to  wear 


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138  ORIGIN   OF  THE 

mitres  like  the  canons  in  the  cathedral  of  Lyons.  He  was,  also^  a 
great  patron  of  mirade-plajs,  and  collected  actors,  morris-dancera 
and  singers  from  distant  provinces,  to  act  the  Mysteries  which  he  ex- 
hibited daily  from  Ascension-day  to  Whiuunday. 

But  all  this  splendour  of  religious  worship  was  mere  theatrical  dis* 
play,  which  Gilles  de  Retz  regarded  with  no  deeper  feeling  than  the 
mimes  and  farces  which  his  dramatic  corps  acted  when  not  engaged 
in  the  celebration  of  Mysteries.  The  brilliant  solemnities  of  the 
Chapel  were  eclipsed  by  extragavant  orgies  in  which  debauched  in- 
vention was  tasked  to  Uie  utmost  to  discover  new  excesses  and  varie- 
ties of  vice.  Every  day  young  maidens  were  taken  by  force  from 
the  cottages  of  their  parents  and  carried  to  the  castle,  nrom  whence 
none  of  them  was  ever  known  to  return. 

Such  excesses  were  sufficient  to  break  down  the  most  ample 
fortune.  Gilles  de  Retz  began  to  feel  the  want  of  means  to  support 
the  state  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed ;  some  of  his  manors  were 
sold,  others  were  mortgaged  to  the  merchants  of  Angers,  and  a  great 
reduction  was  made  in  the  number  and  the  salary  of  the  chaplains. 
To  replace  his  fortune,  the  castellan  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of 
alchymy^  and  the  means  of  transmuting  the  base  metals  into  gold. 
According  to  the  superstitions  of  the  period,  he  was  said  to  have 
entered  into  a  compact  with  Satan,  and  to  have  stipulated  with  the 
prince  of  darkness  to  pay  for  his  instruction  in  the  forbidden  arts,  bj 
a  tributary  sacrifice  of  Christian  children.  In  this  part  of  the  cas- 
tellan's history,  the  Angevin  writers  recognize  the  explanation  of 
the  mysterious  chamber  which  Blue  Beard  guarded  by  such  severe 
penalties  against  the  intrusion  of  female  curiosity. 

Though  we  are  far  from  giving  implicit  credence  to  the  stories  of 
abominable  crimes  said  to  have  been  perpetrated  by  magicians, 
necromancers,  and  alchymists  in  the  dark  ages,  we  cannot  reject  all 
such  narratives  as  mere  fictions.  Many  of  the  worst  corruptions  of 
Paganism,  and  particularly  the  Secret  Mysteries,  introduced  from 
Asia  into  Italy  about  the  time  of  the  Antonines,  long  survived  the 
establishment  of  Christianity,  and  were  secretly  propagated  by  men 
who  may  best  be  described  as  credulous  deceivers.  The  union  of 
enthusiasm  and  imposture  is  common ;  each  has  a  tendency  to  pro- 
duce the  other;  what  are  called  pious  frauds,  have  oflen  been  per- 
petrated with  the  best  intentions :  and  those  who  have  imposed  upon 
the  world  b^  pretended  miracles,  frequently  end  by  becoming  the 
dupes  of  their  own  pretensions.  Such  we  believe  to  have  been  the 
case  with  the  necromancers  and  magicians  of  the  middle  ages ;  they 
believed  that  the  spells  of  a  mystic  ritual  would  confer  on  them 
supernatural  powers,  and  they  attributed  their  failures  to  some  imper- 
fection in  their  ceremonial,  or  to  incomplete  instruction.  These 
mystics  were  banded  together  in  secret  societies,  or  rather  in  secret 
sects,  the  members  of  which  recognized  each  other  by  pass-words 
and  signs,  known  only  to  the  initiated.  Some  suspicion  of  the  hor- 
rible deeds  perpetrated  at  the  meetings  of  these  mystics  was  spread 
among  the  general  public,  and  severe  edicts  were  issued  against 
their  assemblies  both  by  the  Pagan  and  Christian  Emperors.  Indeed 
the  secrecy  of  the  meetings  of  the  Christians  themselves  was  one  of 
the  reasons  most  commonly  assigned  for  the  persecutions  to  which 
they  were  subjected. 


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erroRY  of  blue  beabd.  139 

TraditioD  and  history  equally  point  to  Hindustan  as  the  parent  of 
these  mysterious  fraternities  in  which  ascetictsm  was  frequently  com* 
bined  with  licentiousness^  and  in  which  sometimes  the  bond  of  union 
was  community  in  crime.  The  horrible  association  of  the  Thugs, 
whose  ritual  prescribes  assassination  as  a  duty,  has  continued  to  our 
own  times.  Indeed,  we  find  that  in  the  middle  ages  the  Indians,  that 
is,  the  Hindoos,  were  regarded  as  the  best  teachers  of  magic,  and 
were  as  much  reverenced  as  the  Chaldeans  in  the  later  ages  of  the 
Roman  empire. 

If  Blue  Beard's  secret  chamber  was  a  place  consecrated  to  the 
practice  of  those  mysterious  abominations^  in  which  some  of  the  se» 
cret  societies  notoriously  indulged,  there  is  abundant  reason  for  hb 
affixing  the  penalty  of  death  on  the  intrusion  of  the  uninitiated. 
Gilles  de  Retz  had  secret  chambers  in  all  his  castles,  and  he  engaged 
adepts  ftom  various  countries  to  work  out  '*  the  great  projection** 
under  his  directions.  ^  He  had  heard,"  says  M.  de  Roujoux,  "  that 
there  existed  men  who,  by  certain  rites  and  sacrifices,  and  the  exer- 
tion of  a  firm  will,  acquired  supernatural  powers,  and  tore  away  the 
veil  which  shrouds  incorporeal  forms  from  bodily  vision ;  he  heard 
that  such  persons  became  lords  over  the  fallen  angels,  who  were 
subject  to  Uieir  commands,  and  obeyed  even  the  slightest  intimation 
of  their  will.  He  therefore  sent  out  emissaries  who  traversed  Ger- 
many and  Italy,  penetrated  into  the  most  savage  solitudes,  searched 
the  d^isest  forests,  and  descended  into  the  deepest  caverns,  where, 
according  to  report,  were  the  haunts  and  dwellings  of  the  worshippers 
of  the  prince  or  darkness.** 

One  of  the  earliest  associates  who  presented  himself  to  Gilles  de 
Retz  announced  himself  as  an  Indian  sage.  His  figure  was  imposing 
and  severe;  his  eyes  dark,  but  fiery;  his  beard  long,  white,  and 
pointed ;  and  his  manners,  though  grave,  had  the  easy  grace  which 
marks  men  accustomed  to  the  best  society.  It  subsequently  a{^>eared 
that  the  pretended  Indian  was  a  Florentine  mountebank,  named  Pre- 
lad,  who  had  picked  up  some  vague  traditions  about  oriental  magic 
while  trading  in  the  Levant.  Prdati  led  his  patron  to  believe  that 
Satan  could  only  be  propitiated  by  the  sacrifice  o(^  children,  and  nu- 
merous innocents  were  murdered  in  the  secret  chamber,  whose  cries 
of  agony  were  sometimes  heard  in  the  remotest  parts  of  the  castle ; 
but  any  of  the  domestics  who  attempted  to  penetrate  the  mystery 
were  instantly  put  to  death. 

The  purveyor  of  innocents  for  sacrifice  was  an  old  woman  named 
La  Meffraie ;  she  contrived  to  introduce  herself  to  young  children 
who  tended  flocks,  or  who  wandered  about  as  beggars ;  she  caressed 
them,  gave  them  sweetmeats,  and  thus  enticed  them  to  the  castle  of 
Cbamptoie,  or  to  that  of  Luz4,  where  the  pretended  Indian  worked : 
and  those  who  once  entered  either  were  never  known  to  return.  So 
long  as  the  victims  were  the  children  of  peasants,  who  might  have 
been  supposed  to  have  strayed  accidentally,  or  to  have  run  away  from 
the  privations  which  they  endured  at  home,  little  enquiry  was  made 
on  the  subject ;  but  boldness  increasing  with  impunity,  the  children 
of  some  wealthy  citizens  were  stolen,  and  complaints  were  made  to 
John  v.  Duke  of  Brittany,  the  liege  lord  of  Gilles  de  Retz,  who  gave 
orders  for  the  arrest  of  the  marshal,  and  the  seizure  of  his  castles. 
The  traditional  account  given  of  the  arrest  of  Gilles  de  Retz  has  some 


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140  OBIOIN  OF  THE 

similarity  to  the  incident  of  Sister  Anne  in  the  story  of  Blue  Beard. 
There  was  a  painter  in  Nantes  who  had  a  very  beautiful  wife ;  her 
brother  had  been  engaged  as  a  chorister  in  the  chapel  of  Champtoie, 
but  after  some  time  he  had  inexplicably  disappeared.  When  she  made 
complaint  to  justice*  the  authorities  hesitated  to  attack  a  place  so  for<- 
tified  and  so  strongly  garrisoned  as  Champtoi6«  She  offered  to  intro- 
duce them  into  U^  castle  by  stratagem,  and  related  the  plan  she  had 
formed  for  the  purpose.  On  a  certain  day^  as  had  been  concerted, 
she  pretended  to  stray  into  the  domains  of  the  marshal,  and  was  in»- 
medmtely  seized  by  some  of  his  emissaries  as  a  victim  of  his  lust,  and 
conveyed  as  a  prisoner  to  the  high  tower.  In  her  first  interview 
with  the  marshal^  she  obtained  such  infiuence  over  him,  that  he 
entrusted  her  with  the  keys  of  the  castle,  that  she  might  amuse  her- 
self in  the  gardens  while  he  returned  to  the  Uiboratory.  She  de- 
scended and  unlocked  the  postern  gate,  and  then  ascending  to  the 
tower,  hung  out  the  flag  which  had  been  agreed  upon  as  a  signaL 
One  tradition  says  that  we  soldiers  were  rather  tardy  in  their  arrival, 
and  that  she  was  on  the  point  of  being  the  victim  of  the  marshal's 
brutality,  when  her  hu^iand  and  friends  arrived  to  her  rescue. 
<<  They  found,"  says  M.  de  Roujoux,  <<  m  the  castle  of  Champtoi^  a 
large  chest  full  of  the  calcined  bones  of  children,  to  the  number  of 
about  forty  skeletons.  A  similar  discovery  was  made  at  Luze,  and 
other  {daces  whidi  the  marshal  frequentai.  It  was  calculated  that 
more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  children  had  been  murdered  by  this 
exterminating  monster.** 

Bodin  tells  us  that  when  Gilles  was  interrc^gated  by  the  judges,  he 
confessed,  or  rather  boasted,  that  he  had  committed  crimes  sufficient 
to  procure  the  condemnation  of  ten  thousand  men.  From  the  records 
of  his  trial  in  the  archives  of  Britanny,  it  appears  that  he  was  pro- 
ceeded against  both  civilly  and  ecclesiastically.  His  judges  were  the 
President  of  Brittany,  the  Bishop  of  Angers,  and  Jean  Blouin,  vicar 
to  the  Inquisitor-General  of  France.  They  found  him  guilty  of  all 
possible  and  some  impossible  crimefl^,  adding  to  the  record,  that  he 
confessed  many  other  things  ao  unheard-of  that  they  could  not  be  told 
(maudita  et  innarrabiUa).  He  was  sentenced  to  be  led  in  chains  to 
the  place  of  execution,  and  to  be  burned  alive  at  the  stake.  The  daj 
appointed  was  the  2drd  of  October,  1440,— <*  a  date,"  says  the  histo- 
rian, '*  about  which  there  can  be  no  doubt ;  for  all  the  people  of  Anjou 
and  Maine  by  common  consent  whipped  their  children  on  that  morn- 
ing, so  as  to  impress  the  precise  date  on  their  memory.*'  This  strange 
mnemonic  process  is  still  a  favourite  with  the  peasants  of  Anjou  and 
Brittany. 

Whimsically  enough,  the  monument  erected  to  the  exterminating 
marshal  was  believed  to  have  what  may  be  deemed  an  expiating  influence 
for  the  cruelties  he  had  inflicted  on  children  during  his  life,  and  the 
general  whipping  he  procured  them  at  his  death.  It  was  decorated 
with  a  statue  of  the  Virgin,  which  still  bears  the  name  of  '<  La  Vierge 
de  Cr6e  Lait,**  because  it  possesses  the  power  of  enabling  nurses  and 
mothers  to  produce  abundance  of  that  aliment  in  which  infants  de- 
light. 

We  come  now  to  a  rival  prototype  of  Blue  Beard,  whose  claims  are 
advocated  both  by  the  bards  and  the  historians  of  Brittany.  It  is  a 
saintly  legend,  and  has  the  additional  merit  of  introducing  a  signal 


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SrrORY  OF  BLUB  BEARD.  141 

We  miiBt  therefore  translate  it  as  literally  as  monkish  Latin 
wiU  allow. 

**Li  the  year  of  grace  530  there  lived  near  the  river  Blanet,  in  the 
coontry  of  Vannes,  a  holy  personage  named  Weltan^  a  native  of  the 
isfaad  of  Britain,  who  had  visited  the  continent  as  a  missiooaryy  and 
had  been  enabled  to  build  a  noble  monastery  by  the  contributions  of 
the  peasants  and  the  alms  of  the  faithfuL  His  sermons  and  his  mira- 
dea  were  renowned  throughout  Brittanny,  and  had  introduced  him  to 
the  notice  of  Werek,  Count  of  Vannes,  who  highly  respected  his 
piety, 

**  Now  there  reigned  at  that  time  over  the  country  of  Comouailles 
a  wicked  lord  named  Comorre,  who  had  heard  of  Weltan,  and  wished 
to  see  him.  The  saint,  in  hopes  of  converting  him,  went  to  visit  this 
murderous  wolf,  accompanied  by  some  of  his  monks.  Finding  that 
his  instructions  product  some  sensible  effect  on  the  mind  of  the 
count,  he  agreed  to  remain  at  his  court  until  he  had  completed  the 
procesa  of  his  converuon. 

**  A  little  before  this,  the  Count  of  Comouailles  had  visited  the 
court  of  Vannes,  and  having  seen  Zuphina,  the  eldest  daughter  of 
Count  Werek,  fell  desperately  in  love  with  her.  He  proffered  mar- 
riage, but  was  peremptorily  refused,  on  account  of  the  cruelty  with 
wfaidi  he  had  treated  his  seven  former  wives,  all  of  whom  he  had 
murdered  just  as  they  were  on  the  point  of  becoming  mothers.  This 
rejectioD  so  grieved  him  that  he  spent  the  days  in  tears  and  the 
nights  without  sleep.  At  length  he  entreated  Weltan,  or,  as  he  now 
began  to  be  called.  Saint  Gildasius,  to  use  his  influence  with  Count 
Werek,  that  he  might  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  Comorre's  repent- 
ance^ and  grant  him  the  hand  of  his  daughter.  Weltan  or  Gildasius 
UDd^took  the  task,  and  succeeded. 

**  The  marriage  was  cdebrated  with  great  pomp.  Zuphina  came  to 
the  castle  of  her  husband,  and  was  treated  with  all  the  respect  due  to 
her  rank,  beauty,  and  virtue,  until  she  exhibited  unequivocal  signs 
that  she  was  about  to  become  a  mother.  Comorre  then  began  to  re- 
gard her  with  sinister  glances,  and  to  utter  obscure  menaces,  by 
whidi  she  was  so  much  alaraoed,  that  she  resolved  to  escape  to  her 
fiitlien  Early  one  morning,  just  before  dawn,  leaving  Comorre  fast 
asleep,  she  mounted  her  palfrey,  and  set  forth  unattended  on  the  road 
to  Vannes. 

^  When  the  count  awoke,  he  missed  his  wife,  and  having  heard  of 
her  evasion,  guessed  ri^tly  the  direction  of  her  flight.  He  called 
hr  his  boots,  ordered  his  fleetest  steed  to  be  saddled,  and  gave  chase 
with  the  utmost  force  of  whip  and  spur.  Zuphina  was  almost  within 
si^t  of  Vannes  when  she  discovered  her  pursuer.  She  immediately 
sprung  from  her  palfrey,  and  endeavoured  to  hide  herself  in  a  grove 
of  wfllows.  ConKurre,  on  finding  his  wife's  steed  riderless,  dismount- 
ed, and,  after  a  close  search,  discovered  Zuphina,  and  having  dragged 
her  from  her  hiding-place,  brutally  strangled  her,  in  spite  of  tears  and 
entreaties.  A  peasant,  who  accidentally  witnessed  the  transaction, 
brought  intelligence  of  it  to  Vannes.  Werek  assembled  his  guards, 
and  having  ineffectually  chased  the  murderer,  ordered  the  body  of  his 
daughter  to  be  transported  to  the  town,  while  he  hasted  to  miake  his 
complaint  to  St.  Gilaasius. 

*'  The  saint,  affected  by  the  father's  grief,  which  neither  tears  nor 


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142  ORIGIN  OF  THE  STORY  OF   BLUE   BEARD. 

groans  could  relieve,  consented  to  follow  him  to  Vannes ;  but  on  tbe 
road  he  turned  aside  to  visit  Comorre  in  his  castle  of  Quencquan,  and 
to  reproach  him  for  the  cowardly  murder.  In  anticipation  of  such  a 
visit,  Comorre  had  ordered  the  draw-bridges  to  be  raised,  and  the 
portcullises  let  down.  The  saint,  unable  to  obtain  admission,  took  up 
a  handful  of  dust  and  flung  it  against  the  towers,  four  of  which  ink> 
mediately  fell,  severely  wounding  Comorre  and  his  associates. 

**  The  saint  then  resumed  his  route  to  Vannes,  and  on  reaching  the 
castle,  demanded  to  be  led  to  the  bier  of  the  murdered  Zuphina. 
When  he  was  brought  to  the  chapel  where  she  lay,  he  took  the  corpse 
by  the  hand,  and  said  in  a  loud  voice,  *  Zuphina,  in  the  name  of  the 
Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  I  command  thee  to  arise  and  declare 
unto  us  whither  thou  hast  departed.' 

"  At  these  words  the  lady  arose  and  declared  that  angels  had  been 
engaged  transporting  her  soul  to  Paradise,  when  the  summons  of  Gii- 
dasius  compelled  them  to  restore  it  to  her  body. 

'<  Comorre  was  soon  punished  for  his  crime :  at  the  summons  of 
Werek  all  the  bishops  of  Brittany  assembled  at  Menez-Br6,  and  ful- 
minated an  excommunication  against  the  Count  of  Cornouailles,  so 
efficacious,  that,  as  the  chronicler  assures  us,  *'  he  suffered  the  late  of 
Arias,  and  burst  in  sunder." 

Burgundy  has  set  up  a  third  rival  for  the  prototype  of  Blue  Beard 
in  the  person  of  the  Count  of  Saulx,  whose  cruelty  to  his  wife  forms 
the  subject  of  a  very  indifferent  ballad,  not  worth*  the  trouble  of 
translation.  The  ballad  is  taken  from  a  very  ancient  romance,  of 
which  only  a  few  fragments  have  been  preserved.  From  these  we 
learn  that  during  the  time  when  Burgundy  was  governed  by  its  own 
dukes,  a  certain  Count  de  Saulx,  having  taken  an  inexplicable  dislike 
to  his  wife,  shut  her  up  in  the  den  wiUi  his  bears.  Her  gentleness 
so  won  on  these  savage  animals,  that  they  caressed  her  as  if  they 
had  been  '<  lap-dogs  or  pet  doves."  But  this  example  of  tenderness 
in  beasts  was  so  far  from  mollifying  the  count,  that  it  only  increased 
his  fury.  He  threw  her  into  another  dungeon,  and  fed  her  **  on  the 
bread  of  sorrow  and  the  water  of  affliction."  Some  hint  of  this  con- 
duct was  conveyed  to  the  lady's  brothers :  they  hasted  to  call  the 
count  to  explain  his  conduct ;  but  he  took  the  lady  from  her  prison^ 
arrayed  her  in  robes  of  state,  and  compelled  her  by  furious  menaces 
to  tell  her  brothers  that  she  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  the  treat- 
ment she  received  from  her  husband.  Their  suspicions,  however, 
were  roused  by  her  emaciated  appearance,  but  they  feigned  satisfac- 
tion, and  pretended  to  take  their  departure.  When  the  count  be- 
lieved them  at  a  sufficient  distance,  he  hastened  to  the  chamber  of 
his  lady,  resolved  to  murder  her  without  further  delay ;  but  just  as 
he  raised  the  sword  to  strike,  her  brothers,  who  had  secretly  returned, 
rushed  into  the  room  and  slew  the  cowardly  assassin,  af^er  which  they 
brought  their  sister  home  in  triumph. 

We  think  that  traces  of  these  three  legends  may  be  found  in  Per- 
rault's  story  of  Blue  Beard,  and  that  instead  of  his  having  based  his 
fiction  on  a  single  tradition,  he  endeavoured  to  make  it  a  kind  of 
resumS  of  the  many  legends  of  tyrannical  husbands  with  which  the 
popular  literature  ot  France  abounds. 


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143 
THE  COUNTRY  TOWNS  AND  INNS  OP  PRANCE. 

BY  J.  KARyXL. 
AUXEEKE.—  LIXAOE0. 

Ab  jon  bnub  past  asentinel  at  180  Rue  St  Honore,  at  Paris,  jou  go 
through  the  archwaj,  and  you  are  in  the  great  court  of  Uie  Messageries 
Gen^raleB.  A  dozen  of  the  lumbering  diligences  are  ranged  about  it, 
and  yoa  seek  out,  amid  the  labyrinth  of  names  posted  on  the  doors,  the 
particular  end  of  your  travel.  There  is  a  little  poetic  licence  in  the  use 
of  names,  and  you  will  find  Russia,  and  Syria,  and  Gibraltar  posted, — 
which  means  only  that  you  can  be  booked  at  that  particular  desk  the 
first  stage  upon  the  way. 

Before  each  office  is  drawn  up  its  particular  coach  or  coaches ;  and 
a  multitude  of  porters,  with  coat- collars  trimmed  with  lace,  are  piling 
upon  them  such  tremendous  quantities  of  luggage,  as  make  you  tremble 
for  the  safety  of  the  roof;  to  say  nothing  of  your  portmanteau,  with 
your  nicest  collars,  and  shirts,  and  dress-coat,  and  bottle  of  Macassar 
mly  all  in  its  bellows  top,  and  perhaps  at  the  yery  bottom  of  the  pile. 

As  the  mass  accumulates,  the  trayellers  begin  to  drop  into  the  court 
and  range  themselves  about  the  diligence.  The  heavy  leather  apron  at 
length  goes  over  the  top ;  the  officer  comes  out  with  his  list  of  names, 
and  as  they  are  numbered,  each  takes  his  place.  The  author  for  in- 
stance, has  number  three  of  the  couj>4e,  in  which  he  is  jammed  between 
a  frightfully  large  French  lady,  and  a  small  man  with  a  dirty  mous- 
tache, and  big  pacquet,  which  he  carries  between  his  leg^s,  so  as  to 
make  himself  to  the  full  as  engrossing  a  neighbour  as  his  more  gentle 
companion  at  the  other  window.  These  three  seats  make  the  comple- 
ment of  that  particular  apartment  of  the  diligence,  which  faces  the 
horses,  and  is  protected  by  glass  windows  in  front. 

The  interior  counts  six  by  the  official  roll :  there  are,  perhaps,  a  little 
French  girl  and  *'  papa,"  who  have  been  speaking  a  world  of  adieus  to 
the  city  friends,  that  have  attended  them  up  to  the  last  moment,  as  if 
they  were  about  setting  sail  for  the  Crosettes  in  the  South  Pacific. 
There  are  young  men,  students,  perhaps,  who  have  had  their  share  of 
kisses  and  adieus>  and  there  are  one  or  two  more  inside-travellers,  over 
whom  tears  have  been  shed  in  the  court. 

Even  these  do  not  make  us  fulL  The  rotonde  has  its  eight  more  : 
here  are  men  in  blouses,  fanners,  dealers  in  provisions,  stock-drivers, 
wcmien-servants,  and  German  bagmen.  Nor  is  this  all :  three  mount 
the  top,  and  puff  under  the  leathern  calash  in  front.  The  coachman 
next  takes  his  place,  after  having  attached  his  six  horses  with  raw  hide 
thongs.  The  conductor  lifts  up  his  white  dog,  then  mounts  himself. 
Adieus  flow  from  every  window.  There  are  waving  hands  in  the  court, 
and  dramatic  handling  of  umbrellas ;  and  the  whip  cracks,  and  the  ma- 
chine moves. 

The  little  guard  with  his  musket,  at  the  entrance,  stands  back ; — we 
thunder  through.  The  conductor  shouts,  the  cabmen  wheel  away,  the 
dog  barks  incessantly,  the  horses  snort  and  pull,  and  the  way  clears. 
One  poor  woman  witn  cakes  upsets  all  in  her  haste  to  get  away ;  two  or 
three  hungry-looking  boys  prowl  about  the  wreck ;  a  policeman  comes 
up,  and  the  boys  move  off— hsII  this  is  the  work  of  a  moment. 


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144  THE  COUNTRY   TOWNS 

<<  Ye-e-e,'*  says  the  coachman,  as  he  cracks  his  whip  ; — "  Gar-r-re,** 
says  the  eonductor  to  the  crowds  crossing ; — **  wow-wow-wow,"  yells  the 
snarly  white  dog ;— *'  Pardi  r  exclaims  the  fat  lady ; — **  Le  diahle  !  ** 
says  the  man  with  the  dirty  moustache ;  and  down  the  long  Rue  St. 
Honors  we  thonder. 

There  are  no  such  pretty  little  half-town,  half-coantry  residences  in 
the  neighhonrhood  of  the  French  cities,  as  one  sees  in  the  environs  of 
all  British  towns.  First,  outside  the  Barriers,  come  the  gtUngiutteM 
and  eating-houses ;  then  great  slattern  makoHM  ^arnies,  for  such  as 
prefer  a  long  walk  and  dirty  rooms,  to  paying  town  prices.  These 
lessen  in  pretensions  as  you  advance,  and  lengthen  into  half-yiUages  of 
ill-made  and  ill-kept  houses.  The  inns  are  not  unfrequent,  and  are 
swarmed  by  the  wagon-men  on  their  routes  to  and  from  the  city.  These 
pass  at  length,  and  the  open  country  of  wide-spreading  grain-fields  ap- 
pears. 

Perhaps  it  is  nearly  dark  (for  the  diligence  takes  its  departure  at 
eyening)  before  the  monstrous  vehicle  clatters  up  to  the  first  inn  of  a 
little  suburban  town  for  a  relay.  The  conductor  dismounts,  and  the 
coachman  is  succeeded  by  another — ^for  each  has  the  care  and  manage- 
ment of  his  own  horses. 

Of  course  there  is  a  fair  representation  of  the  curious  ones  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  if  a  passenger  dismount,  perhaps  a  beggar  or  two  will  plead  in 
a  diffident  sort  of  way, — as  if  they  had  no  right,  and  hoping  you  may 
not  suspect  it.  The  conductor  is  the  prime  mover,  and  the  cynosure  of 
all  country  eyes ;  and  his  tasseled  cap  and  embroidered  collar  are  the 
envy  of  many  a  poor  swain  in  shirt-sleeves.  Even  the  postmaster  is  on 
the  best  of  terms  with  him,  and  bids  him  a  hearty  bon  wir,  as  the  new 
coachman  cracks  his  whip,  and  the  dog  barks,  and  we  find  ourselves  on 
the  road  again.  A  straggling  line  of  white- washed  houses  each  side  a 
broad  street,  with  one  or  two  little  inns,  and  a  parish  church  looking 
older  by  a  century  than  the  rest  of  the  houses,  make  up  the  portraiture 
of  the  village. 

Whoever  travels  in  a  French  diligence  must  prepare  himself  to  meet 
with  all  sorts  of  people,  and  must,  more  especially,  fortify  himself  against 
the  pangs  of  hunger  and  want  of  sleep.  Those  who  have  been  jolted 
a  night  on  a  French  road  pavS,  between  a  fat  lady  and  a  man  who 
smelU  of  garlic,  will  know  what  it  is  to  want  the  latter ;  and  twelve 
hours'  ride,  without  stopping  long  enough  for  a  lunch,  has  made  many 
persons,  more  fastidious  under  other  circumstances,  very  ready  to  buy 
the  dry  brown  buns,  which  the  old  women  offer  at  the  coach-windows 
the  last  relay  before  midnight. — How  wishfully  b  the  morning  hoped 
for,  and  how  joyfully  welcomed  even  the  first  faint  streak  of  light  in 
the  east! 

The  man  in  the  comer  rubs  open  hb  eyes,  and  takes  off  his  night- 
cap ;  the  fat  ^lady  arranges  her  head-dress  as  best  she  may ; — and  soon 
appear  over  Uie  backs  of  the  horses  evidences  of  an  approaching  town. 
We  pass  market-people  with  their  little  donkeys,  and  queer-dressed 
women  in  sa^ts,  with  burdens  on  their  heads ;  and  heavy-walled  houses 
thicken  along  the  way. 

Soon  the  tower  or  spire  of  some  old  cathedral  looms  over  crowds  of 
buildings,  and  we  bustle  with  prodigious  clatter  through  the  dirty  streets 
of  some  such  provincial  town  as  Auxerre.  Along  a  stone  building, 
stuccoed,  and  whitewashed,  with  the  huge  black  capitals,  Hotel  de  Paris, 


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AND  mm  OV  FBANCiE.  146 

ov«r  the  door,  is  annomiced  a  breakftst-plaoe.  The  wtiter  or  landlord 
k  fiur  more  chary  of  his  ciTililies  than  at  an  English  oountry  inn ;  all, 
indndii^  the  fat  lady,  are  obliged  to  find  their  own  way  down,  and  to 
the  break£ut*rooin. 

Hie  first  attempt  will  bring  one,  perhaps,  into  a  huge  kitchen,  where 
a  draen  people  in  white  aprons  and  blue  are  moving  about  in  all  direc- 
tioBS,  and  take  no  more  notice  of  you,  than  if  you  were  the  conductor's 
dog.  Yoa  have  half  a  mind  to  show  yonr  resentment  by  eating  no 
fareaklkst  at  all ;  but  the  pangs  of  hunger  are  too  strong ;  and  they  un- 
fartnnat<4y  know  as  well  as  you,  that  he  who  rides  the  night  in  the  dili- 
genee  fcun  himself  at  morning  in  no  homonr  for  futing. 

If  yon  ask  after  breakfast^oarlers,  yoa  are  perhaps  civilly  pointed  to 
the  &€^.  A  rambhnff  table,  set  over  with  a  score  of  dishes,  and  a  bot- 
tle of  red  wine  at  eacm  place,  with  chops,  omelettes,  stewed  liver,  pota- 
toes, «Bd  many  dishes  whose  character  cannot  be  represented  by  a  name, 
eDgvo08  the  hvely  regards  of  the  twenty  passengers  who  have  borne  us 
compamy.  Commands  and  counter-commands,  in  the  accentuation  of 
Amrefgne  or  of  Provence,  calling  for  a  dozen  things  that  are  not  to  be 
had,  ud  complaining  of  a  dosen  things  that  are,  make  the  place  a 
BabeL 

**  Gwt^onT  says  a  middle-aged  man  from  the  interior,  with  his  mouth 
ful  of  hot  liver,  <<  is  this  the  wine  of  the  country  f 
<^  Omi,  m&nmewr^  and  of  the  beet  quality.** 

"  lAon  Dieu  f  it  b  vinegar  I  And  of  what  beast,  pray,  is  thb  the 
liver  ?"  taking  another  mouthful. 

**  Cest  de  veauy  moniieury  and  it  is  excellent." 
**  Par  bleu  I  gat^wiy  you  are  &cetious ;  it  is  like  a  bull's  hide." 
The  fat  lady  is  trying  the  eggs.     **  Bonne  r  she  pipes  to  the  waiting- 
wosnan, ''  are  these  eggs  fresh  ?* 

^They  cannot  be  more  fresh,  madame." 

**Ek,  bien^  with  a  sigh, ''  one  must  prepare  for  such  troubles  in  the 
eountrT  ;  but,  mon  Dieu  I  what  charming  eggs  one  finds  at  Paris  T* 

*^  M,  €eA  vraij  madame/'  says  a  stumpy  man  opposite, — ^^  c'eet  bien 
vrai;je  etUs  de  PariSy  madame,^ 

'*  Prmitnent  P*  replies  the  lady,  not  altogether  taken  with  the  speak- 
er's looks,  **  I  should  hardly  have  thought  it.*' 

If  the  stranger  oan  by  dint  of  voice  among  so  many  voices,  and  so 
wasadtk  geeticnlation,  get  his  fair  quota  of  food,  he  may  consider  himself 
fortunate ;  and  if  he  has  feirly  finished  before  the  conductor  appears  to 
■i^  all  is  ready,  he  is  still  more  fortunate. 

At  loigth  all  are  again  happily  bestowed  in  their  places ;  the  two 
francs  paid  for  the  breakfhst,  tne  two  sous  to  the  surly  ^/arfon,  and  we 
tM  off  from  the  Hdtel  de  Paris. 

Every  one  is  manifestly  in  better  humour :  they  are  talking  busily  in 
the  nUeriar  ;  and  the  fot  lady  delivers  herself  of  a  series  of  panegyrics 
npoD  the  Boovelards  and  Tuileries. 

Meantime  we  are  passing  over  broad  plains,  and  through  long 
avenues  of  elms,  or  Hndens,  or  poplars.  The  road  for  breadth  and 
smoothness  is  like  a  street,  and  stretches  on  before  us  in  seemingly  in- 
terminable length. 

There  are  none  of  those  gray  stone  walk  by  the  wayside,  which  hem 
yon  in  throughout  New  England ;  none  of  those  crooked,  brown  fences 
which  stretch  by  miles  along  the  roads  of  Virginia ;  none  of  those  ever- 


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146  THE  COUNTRY  TOWNS 

lasting  pfoe  woods  under  which  jon  ride  in  the  Carolinas,  your  wheels 
half  huried  in  the  sand^  and  nothing  grreen  upon  it  hut  a  sickly  shrub  of 
the  live  oak,  or  a  prickly  cactus  half  reddened  by  the  sun ;  nor  yet  are 
there  those  trim  hedges  which  skirt  you  right  and  lefl  in  English  land- 
scape. Upon  the  plains  of  Central  France  you  see  no  fence — ^nothing 
by  which  to  measure  the  distance  you  pass  over  but  the  patches  of  grnin 
and  of  vineyard.  Here  and  there  a  flock  of  sheep  are  watched  by  an 
uncouth  shepherd  and  shaggy  dogs ;  or  a  cow  is  feeding  beside  the 
grain,  tethered  to  a  stake,  or  guarded  by  some  bare-ankled  Daphne. 

There  are  no  such  quiet  cottage  farm-houses  as  gem  the  hill-sides  of 
Britain ;  no  such  tasteless  timber  structures  as  deface  the  landscape  of 
New  England ;  but  the  farmery,  as  you  come  upon  it  here  and  there^  is 
a  walled-up  nest  of  houses ;  you  catch  sight  of  a  cart — you  see  a  group 
of  children — ^you  hear  a  yelping  dog — and  the  farmery  is  left  behind. 
Sometimes  the  road  before  you  stretches  up  a  long  ascent ;  the  conduc- 
tor opens  the  door,  and  all  save  the  fat  lady  dismount  for  a  walk  up  the 
hilL  Now  it  is  you  can  look  back  over  the  grain  and  vineyards,  woven 
into  carpets,  tied  up  with  the  thread  of  a  river.  The  streak  of  road  will 
glisten  in  the  sun,  and  perhi^s  a  train  of  wagons,  that  went  tinkling  by 
vou  an  hour  ago,  is  but  a  moving  dot  far  down  upon  the  plain.  The  air 
IS  fresher  as  you  go  up ;  glimpses  of  woodland  break  the  monotony ; 
here  and  there  you  spy  an  old  di&teau ;  and  if  it  be  spring-time  or  early 
autumn,  the  atmosphere  is  delicious,  and  you  go  toiling  up  the  hills,  re- 
joicing in  the  sun. 

In  summer,  you  pant  exhausted  before  you  have  half  walked  up  the 
hill,  and  turning  to  look  back — ^the  yellow  grain  looks  scorched,  and  the 
air  simmers  over  its  crowded  ranks ; — ^the  flowers  you  pluck  by  the  way 
are  dried  up  with  heat 

In  winter,  the  roads  upon  the  plains  are  bad,  and  it  will  be  midnight 
perhaps  before  you  are  upon  the  hills, — if  you  breakfast  as  I  did  at 
Auxerre.  I  found  the  snow  half  over  the  wheels,  and  with  eight 
horses  our  lumbering  coach  went  toiling  through  the  drifts. 

Such  is  the  general  character  of  the  great  high-roads  across  France ; 
but  there  is  something  more  attractive  on  the  retired  routes. 

F will  remember  our  tramp  in  summer-time  under  the  heavy  old 

boughs  of  the  forest  of  Fontainbleau ;  and  how  we  looked  up  wonder- 
ingly  at  tree-trunks,  which  would  have  been  vast  in  our  American  val- 
leys ;  he  will  remember  our  lunch  at  the  little  town  of  Fossard,  and  the 
inn  with  its  dried  bough,  and  the  baked  pears,  and  the  sour  wine.  He 
will  remember  the  tapestried  chamber  at  Villeneuve  du  Roi,  and  the 
fair-day,  and  the  peasant  girls  in  their  gala  dresses,  and  the  dance  in 
the  evening  on  the  green  turf: — he  will  remember  the  strange  old 
walled-up  town  of  St  Florentin,  and  the  pretty  meadows,  and  the  canal 
lined  with  poplars,  when  our  tired  steps  brought  to  us  the  first  sight — 
(how  grateful  was  it  I)-— of  the  richly-wrought  towers  of  the  cathedral 
of  Sens.  He  will  remember,  too,  how  farther  on  toward  the  mountains, 
in  another  sweet  meadow  where  willows  were  growing,  I  threw  down  n^y 
knapsack,  and  took  the  scythe  from  a  peasant  boy,  and  swept  down  the 
nodding  tall  heads  of  the  lucerne, — utterly  forgetting  his  sardonic  smiley 
and  the  grinning  stare  of  the  peasant, — forgettmg  that  the  blue  line  of 
the  Juras  was  lifting  from  the  horison,— or  that  the  sun  of  France  was 
warming  me,  and  mindful  only  of  the  old  perftime  of  the  wilted  bios* 
soms,  and  the  joyous  summer  days  on  the  fturm-land  at  home. 


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AND   INNS  OF   FRANCE.  147 

We  wish  to  take  our  stop  at  some,  DOt  too  large, town  of  tbe interior; 
and  which  shall  it  be  ?  Chalons-sur-Saone,  with  its  bridge,  and  quays, 
and  meadows,— or  Dijon,  lying  in  the  vineyards  of  Burgundy, — or  Cha- 
teauroux,  in  the  great  sheep  plains  of  central  France,— or  Limoges,  still 
more  unknown,  prettily  situated  among  the  green  bills  of  Limousin,  and 
chief  town  of  the  department  Hauie  Vienne  f 

Let  it  be  just  by  the  Boule  d'Or,  in  the  town  last  named,  that  I  quit 
my  seat  in  the  diligence.  The  little  old  place  is  not  upon  any  of  the 
great  routes,  so  that  tbe  servants  of  the  inn  have  not  become  too  repub* 
lican  for  dyility,  and  a  blithe  waiting-maid  is  at  hand  to  take  our 
luggage. 

A  plain  doorway  in  the  heavy  stone  inn,  and  still  plainer  and  steeper 
stairway,  conduct  to  a  clean,  large  chamber  upon  the  first  floor.  Below, 
in  the  little  $alan^  some  three  or  four  are  at  supper.  Join  them  you 
may,  if  you  please,  with  a  chop  nicely  done,  and  a  palatable  vin 
du  payt.  It  is  too  dark  to  see  the  town.  You  are  tired  with  eight- 
and-forty  hours  of  constant  diligence-riding, — if  you  have  come  from 
Lyons,  as  I  did, — and  the  bed  is  excellent 

The  window  overlooks  the  chief  street  of  the  place;  it  is  wide  and 
paved  with  round  stones,  and  dirty,  and  there  are  no  side-walks,  though 
a  town  of  30,000  inhabitants.  Nearly  opposite  is  a  eafi^  with  small 
green  settees  ranged  about  the  door,  with  some  tall  flowering  shrubs  in 
grreen  boxes,  and  even  at  eight  in  the  morning,  two  or  three  persons  are 
loitering  upon  their  chairs  and  sipping  coffee.  Next  door  is  the  office  of 
the  diligence  for  Paris.  Farther  up  the  street  are  haberdashery  shops, 
and  show-rooms  of  the  famous  Limoges  crockery.  Soldiers  are  passing 
by  twos,  and  cavalry-men  in  undress  go  sauntenng  by  on  fine  coal-black 
horses ;  and  the  Guide-book  tells  me  that  from  this  r^ion  come  the 
horses  for  all  the  cavalry  of  France. 

The  maid  comes  in  to  say  it  is  the  hour  for  the  taJtie  cThdU  breakfast 
One  would  hardly  believe,  that  there  are  travellers  who  neglect  this  best 
of  all  places  for  observing  country  habits,  and  take  their  coffee  alone, 
with  English  grimness.  What  matter  if  one  does  fall  in  with  manner- 
less commercial  travellers,  or  snuff-taking  old  women,  and  listen  to  such 
table-talk  as  would  make  good  Mrs.  Unwin  blush  ?  You  learn  from  all 
— ^what  you  cannot  learn  anywhere  else — the  every-day  habits  of  every- 
day people.  Do  not  be  frightened  at  the  room  full,  or  the  clatter  of 
plates,  or  the  six-and-twentv  all  talking  at  the  same  moment :  go  around 
the  table  quietly,  take  tbe  first  empty  chair  at  hand,  and  call  for  a  bowl 
of  soup  and  half  a  bottle  of  wine. 

Thb  is  no  Paris  breakfast,  with  its  rich,  oily  beverage^  and  bread  of 
Provence,  or  Lyons  breakfast,  with  its  white  cutlets ;  but  there  are  as 
many  covers  as  at  a  dinner  in  Baden.  One  may,  indeed,  have  coffee, 
if  he  is  so  odd-fancied  as  to  call  for  it ;  but  I  always  liked  to  chime  in 
with  the  humours  of  the  country:  and  though  I  may  possibly  have 
stepped  over  to  the  cafe  to  make  my  breakfast  complete,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  lost  nothing  in  listening  and  looking  on — in  actual  experience 
of  the  ways  of  living. 

Whoever  carries  with  him  upon  the  continent  a  high  sense  of  personal 
dignity,  that  must  be  sustained  at  all  hazards,  will  find  himself  exposed 
to  innumerable  vexations  by  the  way,  and  at  the  end — if  he  have  the 
sense  to  perceive  it — be  victim  of  the  crowning  vexation  of  returning  as 
ignorant  as  he  went     It  is  singular,  too,  that  such  ridiculous  presump- 

YOL.  XXIII.  M 

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148  THE  COUNTRY  TOWNS 

lion  upon  dignity  is  observable  in  many  instances — where  it  rests  with 
least  grace — ^in  the  persons  of  American  travellers.  Whoever  makes 
great  display  of  wealth,  will  enjoy  the  distinction  which  mere  exhibition 
of  wealth  will  command  in  every  country — the  close  attention  of  the 
vulgar;  its  display  may,  besides  secure  somewhat  better  h6tel  attend- 
ance ;  but  whoever  wears  with  it,  or  without  it,  an  air  o^  hauteur ^  whether 
affected  or  real,  whether  due  to  position  or  worn  to  cover  lack  of  position, 
will  find  it  counting  him  very  little  in  the  way  of  personal  comfort,  and 
far  less  towards  a  full  observation  and  appreciation  of  the  life  of  those 
among  whom  he  travels. 

In  such  an  out-of-the-way  manufacturing  town  as  Limoges,  one  sees 
the  genuine  commis  wyo^ewr— commercial  traveller,*  of  France,  corre- 
sponding to  the  bagmen  of  England.  Not  as  a  class  so  large,  they  rank 
also  beneath  them  in  respect  of  gentlemanly  conduct  In  point  of 
general  information  they  are  perhaps  superior. 

The  French  bagman  ventures  an  occasional  remark  upon  the  public 
measures  of  the  day,  and  sometimes  with  much  shrewdness.  He  is 
aware  that  there  is  such  a  country  as  America,  and  has  understood, 
from  what  he  considers  authentic  sources,  that  a  letter  for  Buenos  Ayres 
would  not  be  delivered  by  the  New  York  postman.  None  know  better 
than  a  thorough  English  commercial  traveller,  who  has  been  "  long  upon 
the  road,"  the  value  of  a  gig  and  a  spanking  bay  mare,  or  the  character 
of  the  leading  houses  in  London  or  Manchester,  or  the  quality  of  Wood* 
stock  gloves  or  Worcester  whips ;  but  as  for  knowing  if  Newfoundland 
be  off  the  Bay  of  Biscay  or  in  the  Adriatic,  the  matter  is  too  deep 
for  him. 

The  Frenchman,  on  the  other  hand,  is  most  voluble  on  a  great  many 
subjects,  all  of  which  he  seems  to  know  much  better  than  he  really 
does ;  and  he  will  fling  you  a  tirade  at  Thiers,  or  give  you  a  caricature 
of  the  king,  that  will  make  half  the  table  lay  down  the  mouthful  they  had 
taken  up,  for  laughing.  Modesty  is  not  in  his  catalogue  of  virtues.  He 
knows  the  best  dish  upon  the  table,  and  he  seizes  upon  it  without  forma- 
lity ;  if  he  empty  the  dish,  he  politely  asks  your  pardon,  (he  would  take  off 
his  hat  if  he  had  it  on,)  and  is  sorry  there  is  not  enough  for  you.  He  will 
help  himself  to  the  breast,  thighs,  and  side-bones  of  a  small  chicken,  dis- 
pose of  a  mouthful  or  two,  then  turn  to  the  lady  by  his  side,  and  say, 
with  the  most  gracious  smile  in  the  world,  **  Mille  pardons^  Madame, 
mats  vous  ne  mangez pas  de  voiaille?^ — but  you  do  not  eat  fowl? 

His  great  pleasure,  however,  after  eating,  is  in  enlightening  the  minds 
of  the  poor  provincials  as  to  the  wonders  of  Paris, — a  topic  that  never 
grows  old,  and  never  wants  for  hearers :  and  so  brilliantly  does  he  en- 
large upon  the  splendours  of  the  capital,  with  gesticulation  and  emphasis 
sufficient  for  a  discourse  of  Bossuet,  that  he  makes  his  whole  auditory  as 
solicitous  for  one  look  upon  Paris  as  ever  a  Mohammedan  for  one  offer- 
ing at  the  Mecca  of  his  worship. 

A  comer  seat  in  the  interior  of  the  diligence,  or  the  head  place  at  a 
country-  inn  table,  are  his  posts  of  triumph.  He  makes  friends  of  all 
about  the  inns,  since  his  dignity  does  not  forbid  his  giving  a  word  to  all ; 
and  he  is  as  ready  to  coquet  with  the  maid-of-all-work  as  with  the  land- 
lady's niece.    His  hair  is  short  and  crisp ;  his  moustache  stiff  and  thick ; 

*  A  class  of  men  who  negotiate  busineits  between  town  and  country  dealers—* 
manufacturers  and  their  sale  agents^  common  to  all  European  countries. 


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AND   INNS  OF  FRANCE.  14-9 

and  his  hand  fat  and  fair,  with  a  signet-ring  upon  the  little  finger  of 
his  left. 

Sach  characters  make  up  a  large  part  of  the  tahle  company  in  towns 
like  Limoges.  In  running  over  Uie  village,  you  are  happily  spared  the 
plague  of  valeis^e-place.  Ten  to  one,  if  you  have  fallen  into  conversa- 
tion with  the  commis  tfoya^eur  at  your  side,  he  will  offer  to  shew  you 
over  the  famous  crockery-works,  for  which  he  has  the  honour  to  be 
travelling  agent.  Thus  you  make  a  profit  of  what  you  would  have  been 
a  fool  to  scorn. 

There  are  curious  old  churches,  and  a  simple-minded,  grey-haired 
verger  to  open  the  side  chapels,  and  to  help  you  to  spell  the  names  on 
tombs :  not  half  so  tedious  will  the  old  man  prove  as  the  automaton 
cathedral-shewers  of  England,  and  he  spices  his  talk  with  a  little  wit. 
There  are  shops,  not  unlike  those  of  a  middle-sized  town  in  our  country ; 
still,  little  air  of  trade,  and  none  at  all  of  progress.  Decay  seems  to  be 
stamped  on  nearly  all  the  country-towns  of  France ;  unless  so  large  as 
to  make  cities,  and  so  have  a  life  of  their  own,  or  so  small  as  to  serve 
only  as  market-towns  for  the  peasantry. 

Country  gentlemen  are  a  race  unknown  in  France,  as  they  are  nearly 
so  with  us.  Even  the  towns  have  not  their  quota  of  wealthy  inhabitants, 
except  so  many  as  are  barely  necessary  to  supply  capital  for  the  works 
of  the  people.  There  is  no  estate  in  the  neighbourhood,  with  its  park 
and  el^antly  cultivated  farms  and  preserves  ;  there  are  no  little  villas 
capping  all  the  pretty  eminences  in  the  vicinity ;  and  even  such  fine 
houses  as  are  found  within  the  limits  of  the  town  wear  a  deserted  look, 
— ^the  stucco  is  peeling  off,  the  entrance-gate  is  barred,  the  owner  is 
living  at  Paris.  You  see  few  men  of  gentlemanly  bearing,  unless  you 
except  the  military  officers  and  the  priests.  You  wonder  what  resources 
can  have  built  such  beautiful  churches ;  and  as  you  stroll  over  their  marble 
floors,  listening  to  the  vespers  dying  away  along  the  empty  aisles,  you 
wonder  who  are  the  worshippers. 

Wandering  out  of  the  edge  of  the  town  of  Limoges,  you  come  upon 
hedges  and  g^reen  fields ;  for  Limousin  is  the  Arcadia  of  France.  Queer 
old  bouses  adorn  some  of  the  narrow  streets,  and  women  in  strange 
head-dresses  look  out  of  the  balconies  that  lean  half-way  over.  But 
Sunday  is  their  holiday-time,  when  all  are  in  their  gayest,  and  when  the 
green  walks  encircling  the  town— laid  upon  that  old  line  of  ramparts 
which  the  Black  Prince  stormed — are  thronged  with  the  population. 

The  bill  at  the  Boule  d'Ch-  is  not  an  extravagant  one ;  for  as  strangers 
are  not  common,  the  trick  of  extortion  is  unknown.  The  waiting-maid 
drops  a  curtsey,  and  gives  a  smiling  bonjour, — not,  surely,  unmindful  of 
the  little  fee  she  gets,  but  she  never  disputes  its  amount,  and  seems 
grateful  for  the  least  There  is  no  "boots"  or  waiter  to  dog  you  over 
to  the  diligence ;  nay,  if  you  are  not  too  old  or  too  ugly,  the  little  girl 
herself  insists  upon  taking  your  portmanteau,  and  trips  across  with  it, 
and  puts  it  in  the  hands  of  the  conductor,  and  waits  your  going  ear- 
nestly, and  waves  her  hand  at  you,  and  gives  you  another  "  bon  voyage^^ 
that  makes  your  ears  tingle  till  the  houses  of  Limoges  and  its  high 
towers  have  vanished,  and  you  are  a  mile  away  down  the  pleasant  banks 
of  the  river  Vienne. 


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150 
SUMMER   SKETCHES   IN  SWITZERLAND. 

BT   MISS    006TBLLO. 

I  KNOW  not  why  it  should  be,  bat  it  certainly  always  happens  with  me 
that  any  place  with  which  I  feel  particularly  well  acquainted  by  means  of 
pictures  and  descriptions,  comes  upon  my  eye  as  altogether  a  stranger. 
It  was  so  with  Venice,  whose  charms  are  far  beyond  all  I  had  imagined 
and  been  led  to  imagine,  and  now  I  found  that  Chillon  was  as  new  to  me 
^  if  I  had  not  seen  countless  drawings  of  its  towers,  and  the  beautiful 
waters  from  which  they  rise. 

The  castle  of  Chillon,  like  all  Swiss  castles,  has  lost  a  gpreat  deal  of  its 
exterior  romantic  beauty,  haying  been  much  rebuilt  to  msJ^e  it  habitable. 
The  heavy  round  towers,  with  their  pointed  roofs,  are,  however,  not 
without  a  certain  grace ;  the  strong  machicolated  walls  and  turrets  are 
well  and  firmly  built,  and  the  carved  ornamental  work  is  still  sharp  and 
fine. 

I  crossed  the  slight  wooden  bridge  over  the  comer  of  the  lake,  and  was 
admitted  to  the  court  by  a  good-tempered  lounging  warder.  The  chief 
care  of  this  officer  seemed  a  favourite  cat,  whose  gambols  he  was  en- 
couraging. He  accompanied  us  through  the  chambers  of  the  castle,  and 
became  eloquent  in  the  right,  or  rather  the  wrong  place,  for  his  incessant 
information,  oracularly  delivered,  was,  it  must  be  confessed,  particularly 
destructive  of  sentimental  enjoyment  in  the  immortal  dungeon  where  the 
feet  of  Bonivard, 

^  Have  left  a  ince,^ 

not  less  than  the  undying  memory  of  the  prisoner  and  his  sons,  whose 
individual  pillar,  of  course,  one  naturally  insists  on  recognising. 

The  name  of  Byron  is  nearly  effiiced  from  the  column  on  which  he 
scratched  it, — ^it  is  the  third  of  the  seven ;  but  that  of  the  iUustriouM 
poetf  Victor  Hugo,  is  conspicuous  on  the  fourth. 

'*  What  busineM  hat  it  there,*' 

in  such  company  ? 

As  the  dimness  of  the  dungeon  wears  away,  when  the  eye  becomes 
accustomed  to  it,  a  fine  effect  b  slowly  developed,  which  the  struggling 
light,  streaming  in  from  the  barred  window,  produces.  The  cheering 
rays  play  upon  the  paved  floor,  and  twine  round  the  finely-carved  capitals 
of  the  supporting  pillars ;  but,  when  captives  were  here  confined  the 
darkness  was  probably  not  so  dispelled,  for  the  bars  were  thicker,  and 
thegloom  was  more  inteuse. 

T%e  chapel  is  in  excellent  repair,  and  parts  extremely  well  restored  ; 
it  reminded  me  in  its  form  and  architecture  of  the  beautiful  chapel 
of  the  Beaumanoirs,  near  Diuan  in  Brittanv,  so  elegant  are  the  slight 
pillars,  and  the  vaulted  ceiling.  There  is  a  door,  now  blocked  up, 
which  led,  by  a  private  stair,  to  the  chamber  of  the  redoubted  lord  of  the 
castle  in  former  days,  Couut  Pierre,  called  Le  Petit  Charlemagne,  who 
is  said  to  have  completed  the  building  in  1238.  His  room  is  as  much 
like  a  dungeon  as  that  in  which  his  prisoners  were  placed ;  but  the  great 
lords  of  those  days  do  not  appear  to  have  been  very  much  like  <<  carpet- 


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SUMMER  SKETCHES.  151 

knights.''  It  assuredly  required  much  tapestry,  and  a  great  many  rushes, 
to  make  a  comfortable  boudoir  for  lord  or  lady  out  of  rough  stone  cells, 
with  walls  tweWe  fSeet  thick,  and  windows  of  extreme  minuteness. 

We  followed  the  guide,  now  reinforced  by  his  lively  young  wife,  who 
was  very  communicative,  to  a  most  dismal  spot,  which  they  showed  as  the 
burial-place  of  Count  Pierre^  who  seemed  to  hold  a  high  place  in  their 
regard. 

We  found  ourselves^  after  groping  along  several  dark  passages,  and 
descending  a  flight  of  steps,  in  a  vaulted  chamber,  the  floor  of  which  is 
much  decayed,  and  the  stones  overgrown  with  dank  mss :  beneath  this 
is  a  large  vault,  which  was  the  receptacle  of  the  feunily's  dead  in  bygone 
times ;  and  here  Le  Petit  Charlemagne's  bones  were  laid :  whether  they 
remain  there  still  is  probably  unknown,  as  much  so  as  himself  or  his 


The  grande  salle  of  the  castle  is  a  splendid  chamber,  with  pretty,  an« 
cient,  pointed  windows  in  pairs,  supported  by  slight,  graceful  pillars,  and 
having  in  the  embrasures  stone  seats,  from  one  of  which  1  looked  out 
upon  the  beautiful  lake  glowing  with  bumbhed  gold,  crimson,  and  pur- 
ple, as  the  magnificent  sunset  sent  the  scene  Uirough  all  its  dolphin 
changes, — 

<(  The  last  still  loveUest,  till  *tis  gone, 
And  all  is  grvy." 

The  fireplace  of  this  room  is  fine,  and  the  groups  of  smisll  pillars  on  each 
side  of  it  very  beautifuL 

In  a  lower  saUe^  also  with  fine  ranges  of  windows,  is  exhibited  a  tor- 
ture-pillar, which  suggests  hideous  imaginings.  It  is  fearfully  close  to 
the  probably  daily  inhabited  rooms,  and  the  groans  of  the  sufierer  must 
have  been  awfully  distinct  in  the  ears  of  the  lords,  knights,  and  retainers, 
who,  ^'in  the  good  times  of  old,"  were  perhaps  carousing  close  by. 

Tippoo  Saib  was  accustomed  at  his  banquets  to  indulge  in  the  luxury 
of  a  sort  of  barrel-organ  of  a  peculiar  construction,  which  imitated  the 
groans  of  a  tiger,  and  the  shrieks  of  a  British  soldier  whom  the  beast 
was  devouring  as  represented,  the  size  of  life,  bv  this  singular  instru- 
ment of  music*  Count  Pierre,  the  lord  of  Chillon,  was  apparently 
content  with  Nature  in  all  her  unassisted  force,  and,  as  he  sat  at  meat, 
enjoyed  his  victim's  groans  fully  as  much  as  the  semblance  of  them 
pleased  the  mind  of  the  Eastern  tyrant. 

The  roof  of  the  hall  is  of  fine  carved  wood-work,  and  in  this  spacious 
chamber  are  collected  the  arms  of  the  Canton  in  formidable  array.  The 
garrison  of  the  castle,  for  it  is  a  military  dep6t,  consists  at  present  of  four 
soldiers,  whose  duty  does  not  seem  very  distressing,  for  three  of  them 
were  out  on  business,  or  seeking  amusement,  and  the  hero  remaining  at 
home  to  guard  the  fortress,  we  found  busy  picking  a  sallad  for  the  daily 
meal,  as  he  sat  on  the  parapet  of  the  drawbridge,  with  his  legs  dangling 
over  the  wall,  by  no  means  in  a  state  of  hostile  preparation. 

On  our  return  to  Vevey  we  met  another  of  the  garrison,  heavily  laden 
with  viands  which  he  was  carrying  to  the  castle,  no  doubt  having  duly 
provided  for  the  chances  of  a  siege. 

The  kitchen,  which  once  was  put  in  requisition  for  a  somewhat  more 
formidable  party,  is  a  spacious  place,  with  fine  pillars,  and  a  gigantic 
fire-place. 

*  It  is  to  be  seen  at  the  Museum  of  the  India  House. 


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152  SUMMER   SKETCHES 

The  oubliette  is,  of  course,  not  forgotten  :  a  horrible  hole  is  still 
shown,  which  one  looks  cautiously  down,  with  shuddering  and  loathing. 
It  is  fifty  feet  deep,  and  sufficiently  secure  to  prevent  the  refractory  from 
giving  any  more  trouble  to  those  who  caused  them  to  be  transferred  from 
the  torture-pillar  to  this  resting-place,  where  they  need 

*<  Fear  no  more  the  heat  of  the  sun.** 

Our  guide  and  his  lively  wife  had  a  dispute,  though  they  must  have 
told  their  story  often  before,  about  the  actual  depth  of  the  lake.  One 
said  it  was  four  hundred,  the  other  insisted  upon  the  fact  of  its  being 
eight  hundred  feet  deep.  As  they  were  very  warm  on  the  subject,  I  con- 
tented myself  with  repeating  the  lines  of  the  poet,  with  which  I  was  quite 
satisfied,  in  every  way. 

**>  Lake  Lemau  lies  by  Chillon^s  walls : 
A  thotuandfeet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow  : 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  ChilloD*s  snow-white  battlement" 

Murray  says  the  lake  is  here  only  two  hundred  and  eighty  feet  in  depth : 
all  I  cared  for  I  beheld,  that  it  was  deep,  and  blue,  and  clear,  and  lovely  : 

"  A  mirror  and  a  bath  for  beauty*s  youngest  daughters." 

The  deathless  island,  with  its  **  three  tall  trees,**  rose  out  of  the  trans- 
parent waters,  like  a  beacon  pointing  to  a  spot  of  glory :  to  me  it  seemed 
that  the  whole  scene,  lake,  islands,  castle,  mountains,  shore,  belong  to 
England,  through  one  of  her  most  unapproachably  gifted  bards,  before 
whose  suD  the  whole  host  of  scattered  stars  troop  away,  and  are  remem* 
bered  only  in  his  absence. 

It  appears  to  my  enthusiasm  to  be  as  useless  to  compare  any  other 
poet  of  the  day,  however  good,  with  Byron  and  Moore,  as  it  would  be  to 
name  any  of  the  minor  mountains,  splendid  though  they  be,  with  Mont 
Blanc. 

Our  drive  back  to  Vevey  was  much  more  agreeable  than  our  approach 
to  Chillon :  in  the  bright  and  betraying  sunlight  all  the  villages  looked 
vulgar,  flaring,  and  dirty,  and  the  hot  stone  walls  white  and  weary ;  but 
now  that  the  day  was  fast  declining  there  was  a  soft  g^ey  tint  spread 
over  every  object,  and  the  deep  shadows  gave  much  beauty  to  the  scene. 
No  one  in  travelling  should  venture  to  judge  of  any  appearance  that 
meets  the  eye  on  a  first  view,  the  second  appreciation  is  generally  that 
which  does  most  justice. 

I  had  thought  the  greatest  part  of  the  road  ugly  on  my  way,  and  now 
all  seemed  changed  into  grace  and  beauty.  Countless  stars  were  scatter- 
ed over  an  intensely  blue  sky ;  flashes  of  harmless  summer  lightning  re- 
vealed the  distant  peaks,  and  played  over  the  surface  of  the  wide  calm 
lake ;  and,  as  it  grew  yet  darker,  the  lights  in  the  villages  of  the  oppo- 
site shore  sparkled  and  flickered,  like  glow-worms  in  the  grass.  A  huge 
furnace  at  Meillerie  threw  up  its  broad  flames  into  the  gloom,  and  its 
bright  red  reflection  cast  down  into  the  dark  waters  at  its  feet,  produced 
a  singularly  wild  and  startling  effect,  as  if  a  solemn  sacrifice  were  going 
on  in  honour  of  the  **  spirit  of  the  place." 

That  night  at  Vevey  was  magnificent,  and  most  enjoyable  did  I  find 
the  charming  room  I  occupied  in  the  finest  of  all  possible  hotels  on  the 


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IN  SWITZERLAND.  153 

edge  of  the  glorious  lake.     I  had  so  often,  during  my  rambles  this  sum- 
mer, luxuriated  in  the  splendours  of 

^<  Night  with  all  her  start,** 
that  this  was  only  one  of  a  series  of  enjoyments  which  I  fully  appre- 
elated, — and,, although  the  Lake  of  Como  is,  in  my  mind,  unique  in  love- 
liness, yet  it  has  certainly  a  powerful  rival  in  Lake  Leman ;  and,  though 
by  day  the  latter,  except  when  Mont  Blanc  is  visible,  is  not  equal,  yet  at 
night  it  may  compete  with  the  most  charming  spot  in  the  world. 

From  Vevey  the  whole  drive  to  Geneva  is  a  garden  all  bloom,  riches, 
and  luxuriance,  improving  as  the  great  town  of  the  lake  is  approached : 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Lausanne  the  scenery  is  beautiful,  and,  scatter- 
ed in  all  directions  are  such  charming  country  houses  that  they  seemed 
to  throw  into  shade  all  my  memories  of  delightful  English  residences. 

On  the  banks  of  this  famous  lake  are  sites  unequalled  probably  in 
Europe, — for  where  besides  can  be  beheld  a  whole  range  of  glorious 
mountains,  with  their  monarch  rising  above  all,  their  feet  in  the  blue 
waters,  and  their  snowy  heads  in  the  sky  ?  And  in  the  midst  of  majestic 
scenes  like  this  exists  rural  beauty  in  all  its  pastoral  perfection, — parks, 
lawns,  and  meadows, — gardens,  groves,  and  glades,  all  combining  to 
make  the  poetical  Lake  of  Geneva  the  beau  ideal  of  the  romancer  and 
the  painter. 

The  cathedral  of  Lausanne  has  an  imposing  appearance,  and  possesses 
several  features  of  interest,  and  the  walks  and  terraces  surrounding  the 
town  are  all  delightfully  situated. 

I  strained  my  eyes  to  discover,  below  the  road  on  the  borders  of  the 
lake,  the  little  inn  at  Ouchy,  where  Bvron  is  said  to  have  written  rapidly 
his  affecting  **  Prisoner  of  Chillon  :*  the  new  road  does  not  descend  to 
the  lake,  as  was  the  case  formerly. 

There  is  a  venerable,  gloomy- looking  castle  at  Merges,  said  to  have 
been  built  by  that  mysterious  lady,  Queen  Bertha,  of  whom  historians 
and  poets  have  recorded  both  good  and  evil,  and  whose  real  story,  and 
even  existence,  is  by  no  means  clearly  designated. 

We  paused  at  Coppet,  and,  guided  by  an  animated  and  talkative  old 
woman,  went  up  to  the  house,  and  walked  about  the  formal  grounds ; 
but  there  was  no  means  of  seeing  the  cemetery  in  a  grove  where  Neckar 
and  his  daughter  lie  enshrined.  The  house  is  in  good  repair,  and  neatly 
kept,  the  floors  of  beautiful  inlaid  wood,  and  the  furniture  extremely  sim- 
ple. Madame  de  Stael  herself  never  cared  about  the  repairs  or  beauti- 
fying of  her  abode;  she  only  professed  to  have  an  excellent  cook  and 
plenty  of  room  for  her  friends.  Her  hospitality  was  genuine,  and  her 
heart  all  warmth  and  kindness :  her  memory  seems  tenderly  cherished 
by  all  those  to  whom  she  was  known.  Our  old  guide  was  very  mysteri- 
ous in  her  hints  about  Benjamin  Constant,  Madame  Recamier,  and 
several  other  accustomed  guests,  and  told  us  a  variety  of  stories  of  her 
having  been  employed  to  convey  billets  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  de- 
voted friends  of  Coppet,  concluding  every  anecdote  with  exclamations  in 
praise  of  the  unbounded  generosity,  kindness,  and  goodness  of  la  meil- 
leure  des  femmes  et  des  maitresses." 

The  well-known  portrait  of  Madame  de  Stael  by  David  hangs 
in  the  principal  room,  together  with  that  of  her  father  by  Gerard, 
and  a  very  interesting  likeness  of  her  mother,  who  was  a  pretty 
woman,  by  an  artist  whose^  name   seems  forgotten.     The  desk   and 


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154  SUMMER  SKETCHES 

inkstand  of  Corinne  are  shown ;  but  they  are  no  longer  in  the  study 
where  she  was  accustomed  to  write,  which  is  a  circumstance  to  be  re- 
gretted :  indeed,  it  struck  me  that  there  was  more  of  the  lovely  Re- 
camier  at  Coppet  than  of  her  dbtinguished  friend,  who  declared  that  she 
would  give  all  her  genius  for  the  other's  beauty,  so  inconsistent  is  human 
reason  and  wisdom.  The  chamber  occupied  by  the  admired  lady  is  stHl 
decked  in  its  faded  tapestry,  and  one  almost  expecto  to  see  her  scantily 
clothed  form  glide  forth  from  some  nook  shrouded  by  brocade  curtains. 

An  immense  tulip-tree  waves  its  large  leaves  at  the  entrance  of  the 
garden  court,  and  a  luxuriant  clematis  has  climbed  all  over  the  iron 
gates  and  rails,  throwing  its  perfumed  wreaths  on  every  ornamental  pro^ 
jection.  There  is  no  beiuity  in  the  architecture  of  the  house,  nor  are  the 
grounds  attractive ;  but  there  is  quiet,  and  repose,  and  a  pleasant  memory, 
lingering  round,  that  makes  an  hour  pass  deliciously  in  the  haunta  where 
the  inimitable  Corinne  regretted  Paris,  and  charmed  her  guesto. 

We  were  much  amused  by  our  chattering  and  communicative  guide 
drawing  us  aside  as  we  entered  the  house  after  strolling  with  her,  and  as 
she  handed  us  over  to  a  housekeeper  whose  department  was  the  interior, 

'<  Prenez  bien  garde,"  said  she  winking  signiBcantly,  *'  de  ne  pas  m^me 
prononcer  le  nom  de  Benjamin  Constant  ici,  car  ja  jaseuse  que  voici  se 
formerait  I'id^e  que  j*ai  ^te  tant  soit  peu  babillarde  a  I'egard  de 
cette  pauvre  chdre  madame*  Moi,  qui  ne  parle  jamais  des  affaires 
d'autruL  Ces  sortes  de  gens  ne  sent  pas  a  m^me  de  comprendre  la 
delicatesse  de  Tamiti^  voyez  vous." 

Poor  Corinne  I  the  petty  scandals  of  a  village,  or  a  world,  can  annoy 
her  no  more,  and  none  of  those  who  shared  her  counsels  and  her  afiec* 
tions  are  left  to  be  affected  by  tales  which  have  ceased  to  gratify  rivals, 
or  interest  admirers* 

I  can  conceive  few  situations  more  agreeable  than  to  have  obtained,  as 
we  did  at  Geneva,  good  apartments  overlooking  the  lake,  at  the  handsome 
Hotel  des  Bergues,  which  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  good  which  abound  in 
Switzerland.  When  it  became  quite  dark  in  the  evening,  the  clear  water, 
and  the  ranges  of  bright  lighU  along  the  shore  reminded  me  strongly  of 
the  Canale  Grande  at  Venice,  and  it  was  difficult  for  any  thing  to  be  more 
enjoyable  than  the  spot  and  the  moment 

I  understood  that  Mont  Blanc  had  not  been  visible  for  some  time ;  to 
us  it  had  not  yet  appeared  throughout  our  journey  in  its  neighbourhood, 
and  I  trembled  tha^  like  manv  a  traveller,  I  should  be  forced  to  leave 
Geneva  without  a  glimpse  of  the  giant  form  which  sometimes  shows  it- 
self clearly  for  weeks,  and  at  others  is  shrouded  in  impenetrable  clouds, 
as  it  was  now.  I  entreated  to  be  awakened  if  at  daybreak  the  monarch 
deigned  to  appear,  and,  having  left  my  curtains  open  in  expectation,  I 
was  able  to  sleep. 

The  next  morning,  however,  was  dim  and  unpromising ;  and  though  the 
sun  became  bright  and  powerful  during  the  day,  yet  the  canopy  of  clouds 
which  veiled  the  distance  did  not  disperse,  and  I  was  fain  to  turn  away 
my  eyes  from  the  space  between  the  Mole  and  Mont  Saleve,  where  the 
haughty  sovereign  of  these  regions— was  not. 

But,  even  though  Mont  Blanc  is  invbible,  there  is  much  round  Ge- 
neva to  compensate  in  some  degree  for  his  proud  sullenness.  First, 
there  is  the  purple  Rhone,  with  sparkling  waters,  so  rich  in  colour,  and 
so  impetuous  in  career,  that  it  yields  to  no  river  in  Europe. 

Furious  and  wild  rush  along  the  headlong  waves,  as  if  the  whole  city 


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IN  SWITZERLAND.  155 

mot  ineritaUy  be  swept  away  in  its  coorse;  and  strange  it  is  to  stand 
on  tlie  fragile  bridges  which  cross  it  from  the  streets  to  the  quays,  and 
feel  the  Tibration  caused  by  its  impetuosity,  and  watch  the  angry  gam- 
bols of  tbe  spirits  of  the  torrent. 

Hie  deepest  sapphire,  the  darkest  lapis  laauli  are  poor  in  tint  to  the 
wondrous  richness  of  the  colour  of  the  Rhone  as  it  issues  from  the  axure 
lake,  and  rushes  madly  along  towards  its  junction  with  the  furious  Anre, 
whose  turbid  waters,  pouring  down  from  the  eternal  glaciers,  deform 
the  transparent  purity  of  the  fated  stream  which  cannot  evade  their  con- 


Hofur  after  hour  one  can  stand  watching  the  play  and  strife  of  the 
beautiful  wares,  and  listen  in  amasement  to  their  ceaseless  thundering 
din  as  they  chafe  and  struggle  amongst  the  rocks  which  bristle  along  the 
bottom,  and  deride  thor  fdry. 

Many  of  the  ugly,  shabby  old  houses  which  used  to  deform  these 
shores  are  removed,  and  some  fine  buildings,  in  modem  taste,  hare 
taken  their  place ;  but  there  are  still  strange,  dirty,  broken-^wn-looking 
tenements  in  plenty,  which  are  almost  too  squalid  to  be  picturesque. 

The  pretty  island  of  Jean  Jacques  is  a  favourite  erening  promenade, 
and  it  is  really  delightful  to  take  a  chair  beneath  the  magnificent  and 
gigantic  poplars  which  adorn  the  spot,  and  listen  to  a  fine  band,  the 
edboes  of  whose  melodies  are  borne  far  over  the  waters,  and  resound 
slong  the  charming  shores  covered  with  country  houses,  on  pnmiontories 
stretching  out  into  the  expanding  lake.  A  pretty  suspensiou -bridge  con- 
ducts to  this  pleasure-island,  and  the  whole  has  a  most  agreeable  effect 
from  the  shore. 

The  antique  cathedral  of  Geneva  rises  grandly  from  a  mass  of  build- 
ings, few  of  which  have  much  to  recommend  them  to  notice  but  the 
general  aspect  at  a  distance  of  the  town  b  imposing.  It  is  better  not  to 
enter  it,  and  have  a  fevourable  impression  destroyed,  for,  particularly  in 
the  lower  town,  it  is  as  ugly,  slovenly,  dirty,  and  disgusting  a  place  as 
can  be  well  met  with  out  oip  France. 

There  are  no  good  shops  to  be  seen,  and  all  tbe  riches  of  jewels  and 
watches,  for  which  Geneva  is  celebrated,  are  hidden  in  upper  floors, 
which  it  requires  much  exploring  for  a  stranger  to  discover,  and,  when 
found,  they  present  very  little  attraction  to  any  one  accustomed  to  the 
splendid  display  common  to  Paris  and  London.  Watches  and  jewellery 
are,  however,  cheap  here,  and  many  persons  may  think  it  worth  while  to 
acquire  some  of  the  treasures  which  struck  me  as  wanting  both  grace 
and  novelty. 

A  very  pleasant  stroll  on  a  summer  evening  at  Geneva  is  on  the  ram- 
part walk  close  to  the  inn,  which  overlooks  the  lake  and  river.  Here  all 
the  **  rose  hu»  "  of  sunset  which  tinge  the  opposite  Alps  are  seen  in  per- 
fection ;  and  it  is  delightful  to  observe  the  fleets  of  snowy  sails  and 
darting  prows  skimming  along  the  surface  of  the  waters,  and  ever  and 
anon  firing  their  saluting  guns,  which  every  echo  answers  far  and  near, 
in  hoarse  and  gentle  murmurs. 

Opposite  is  the  shore  where  stands  Lord  Byron's  villa,  Diodati,  from 
whence  he  made  so  many  excursions  on  the  lake  and  amidst  moun- 
tains destined  to  retain  the  memory  of  Childe  Harold  and  Manfred, 
names  that  have  superseded  those  of  St.  Preux  and  Julie,  and  all  their 
senydmentality. 


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156  SUMMER  SKETCHES 

It  has  been  well  said  by  an  acute  writer  in  the  "  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes/'  apropos  of  the  works  of  the  once  celebrated  Mademoiselle  de 
Scudery : — "  There  is  a  reciprocal  reaction,  the  exact  measure  of  which  it 
is  difficult  to  determine,  between  authors  and  their  period.  It  has  fre- 
quently been  asserted  that  literature  is  the  picture  of  society ;  but  in 
many  instances  society  is  rather  the  picture  of  literature. 

'*  In  all  civilised  times  there  has  existed  a  class  of  persons  who  are 
inevitably  influenced  by  it;  whose  fondness  for  reading  is  accom- 
panied by  delicacy  of  mind,  a  lively  imagination,  and  a  proneness  to  re- 
flection. To  certain  minds  the  appearance  of  a  particular  book  is  an 
event  of  importance  equal  to  the  most  violent  revolution.  The  history  of 
many  persons  might  be  recounted  in  a  relation  of  the  different  writings 
which  have  moved  and  agitated  them ;  as  Madame  de  Stael  said,  *  the 
carrying  off  of  Clarissa  was  one  of  the  events  of  her  youth  :'  whether  it  be 
the  sorrows  of  Clarissa,  or  those  of  another,  every  poetical  imagination 
may  be  similarly  affected. 

"  For  every  one,  in  their  favourite  line  of  reading,  there  is  a  world  of 
internal  revolution;  feelings  which  generally  remain  undisclosed,  and 
are  unknown  to  the  writer  who  has  roused  them*  Sometimes  they  de- 
velope  themselves  in  actions,  whose  mystery  is  inexplicable  to  the  looker 
on.  Imagination  has,  no  doubt,  the  greatest  share  in  our  passions ;  by 
imagination  every  object  is  embellished  and  rendered  pure,  all  fiction  is 
allowed,  by  this  influence,  to  reign  paramount,  and  our  minds  are  invo- 
luntarily guided  by  this  invisible  agency.  From  this  cause  it  has  hap- 
pened that  literary  persons  sometimes  confine  their  feelings  entirely  to 
their  works.  Their  emotions  are  but  the  reflection  of  their  writings ; 
their  strongest  sentiments  are  but  reminiscences ;  and  when  they  think 
they  are  giving  way  to  passion,  they  are  merely  adding  a  page  to  litera- 
ture. With  regard  to  romances,  this  is  eminently  true;  we  cannot, 
therefore,  but  feel  a  certain  emotion  in  looking  over  those  of  a  bygone 
time,  even  though  the  interest  they  excited  is  evaporated,  and  the  lan- 
guage of  passion,  once  thought  so  vivid,  sound  cold  in  our  ears.  When 
we  read  the  Nouvelle  Heloise,  Julie  and  Saint  Preux,  cause  us  little 
emotion ;  but  that  which  cannot  fail  to  do  so,  is  the  reflection  that  so 
many  souls,  now  quenched  in  oblivion,  have  been  deeply  agitated,  have 
mingled  their  very  being^s,  and  given  way  to  secret  raptures,  with  those 
two  imaginary  personages,  and  loved  and  suffered  with  the  hero  and 
heroine  of  that  celebrated  fiction. 

"  There  b,  therefore,  but  little  philosophy,  perhaps,  in  disdaining, 
from  false  delicacy,  the  study  of  such  works,  mediocres  though  they  may 
really  be  as  literary  productions,  for  they  are  generally  highly  important 
in  reference  to  the  history  of  manners  and  ideas. 

<*  The  influence  of  first-rate  works  is,  of  course,  greater  and  more 
enduring  in  the  end ;  but  the  influence  of  romances  which  have  been 
successful  is  always  most  extensive  and  most  remarkable  on  contempo- 
rary readers. 

"  The  actual  common -place  of  these  romantic  fictions  b  sufficient  to 
render  them  more  popular  and  more  powerful  over  the  mass  of  the 
public.  The  highest  order  of  poetry  addresses  itself  only  to  delicate  and 
cultivated  minds :  in  order  to  preserve  its  exalted  station  it  seeks  events 
and  circumstances  which  it  loves  to  represent  in  a  sphere  more  removed 
and  less  accessible  to  common  intelligence. 

*'  Hence  it  results,  that  amongst  the  romances  which  have  exercised  a 


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IN   SWITZERLAND.  157 

passionate  influence  over  a  whole  generation^  there  are  few  that  ought  to 
be  judged  by  a  severe  literary  standard ;  they  belonged  to  their  time,  and 
have  disappeared  with  it.  They  should  be  studied  as  historical  docu- 
ments, as  we  study  chronicles  and  memoirs.  They  are  the  journals  of 
a  time  gone  by  :  we  find  in  them  personages  decked  in  the  diverse  cos- 
tumes which  human  passions  have  successively  adopted,  always  the  same 
in  fact,  but  variable  in  their  appearance.  Seen  in  this  light,  the  popu- 
lar  romances  of  the  day  may  occasion  numerous  interesting  observations, 
and  develope  curious  coincidences." 

I  have  sometimes  been  surprised  at  my  own  insensibility  in  remaining 
unmoved  at  the  reading  of  the  adventures  of  the  lovers  of  Lake  Leman^ 
and  was  not  sorry  to  meet  with  the  above  passage,  which  not  only  satis- 
factorily rescues  me  from  my  self-charge  of  indifference  to  beauty,  but 
gives  the  best  reason  for  the  inordinate  success  of  Rousseau's  romance 
in  its  day,  and  its  failure  at  the  present  One  would  not  willingly  be- 
lieve that  the  time  can  ever  come  when  Byron's  name  will  be  as  coldly 
recollected  amongst  these  magnificent  scenes  as  that  of  Rousseau — be 
that  as  it  may,  he  is  still  the  presiding  genius  of  the  place,  and  his  me- 
lody wakes  in  every  breeze :  how  he  contrived  to  enter  so  much  into 
the  false  sentiment  of  the  most  earthly  of  all  poetical  lovers,  1  cannot 
understand,  but  he  probably,  like  a  good  actor,  merely  assumed  the  feel- 
ing for  the  occasion,  in  order  the  more  to  carry  away  his  auditors. 

*«  What  *8  Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hecuba, 
That  he  should  weep  for  her  ?** 

We  took  several  walks  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Geneva,  all  extremely 
agreeable,  and  showing  much  comfort  and  refinement.  The  ranges 
of  pleasant  country-houses,  standing  in  gardens  and  shrubberies,  cannot 
be  excelled  in  the  outskirts  of  London,  and  are  far  neater  and  better 
than  those  near  Paris.  I  imagine  a  residence  there  must  be  one  of  the 
most  enjoyable  things  one  could  obtain,  and  am  not  surprised  that  so  many 
English,  who  are  always  seeking  for  pleasing  sites,  are  established  on 
the  borders  of  the  Lake. 

The  uncertainty  of  the  weather  occasioned  a  corresponding  indecision 
in  our  movements.  The  head  of  '*  the  monarch"  was  still  shrouded  in 
clouds,  and  bright  and  warm  though  the  sun  was,  there  seemed  little 
chance  of  the  sky  becoming  clear.  We  were  obliged  to  abandon  the 
intention  of  taking  the  magnificent  route  of  the  T^te  Noire,  to  arrive  at 
Chamouny,  and  giving  up  the  lake  voyage  altogether,  at  lengrth  resolved 
to  brave  the  spirits  of  mist  and  storm,  and  take  post  to  Saint  Martin, 
hoping  that  the  troops  of  grey  clouds  which  obscured  the  air  at  noon, 
might,  with  the  usual  perverseness  of  mountain  weather,  disperse  and 
bring  us  good  fortune. 

We  set  out,  then,  on  a  sombre  but  by  no  means  unpleasant  afternoon ; 
but  as  we  advanced,  neither  the  Jura,  the  Voirons,  nor  even  Mount 
Saleve,  always  hitherto  visible  to  us  at  Geneva,  permitted  us  a  glimpse 
of  their  peaks,  though  rarely  hidden  from  Chesne. 

We  crossed  the  boundary  stream  of  the  Foron,  and  at  Anramasse 
were  again  in  the  Sardinian  dominions,  a  fact  intimated  to  us  by  the 
necessity  of  stopping  in  the  road  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  while  **  our 
papers  **  were  examined  or  supposed  to  be  examined,  so  strictly,  that  the 
zealous  individual  who  guarded  his  native  land  against  our  treasonous 
machinations,  wa?  forced  to  charge  four  francs  for  the  trouble  we  had 
given  him. 

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168  SUMMER  SKETCHES   IN  SWITZERLAND. 

Still  tbick>  though  beaatifal,  wreaths  of  snowy  mist  hang  over  the 
crowding  hills,  as  we  continued  our  way  above  the  valley  of  the  Arve^ 
whose  wide,  white  bed  was  nearly  dry,  and  whose  numerous  stone 
bridges  seemed  to  hang  in  useless  grace  over  the  exhausted  torrent 

At  Bonneville  we  rested  two  hours,  and  wandered  about  with  the 
hope  of  seeing  something  interesting :  in  a  corn-field  we  encountered  a 
talkative  woman,  who  used  her  utmost  art  to  discover  at  which  inn  we 
bad  put  up,  and  in  spite  of  her  former  civility,  instantly  abandoned  us  in 
disgust,  when  she  found  that  we  had  chosen  one  which  was  a  rival  to 
that  she  wished  to  recommend  :  having  got  rid  of  her,  we  had  leisure 
to  reconnoitre  the  old  towers  and  turrets  of  the  once  extensive  and 
strong  castle  of  Bonneville,  and  the  defending  fortresses  of  the  town 
walls.  The  eternal  snows  of  Mont  Blanc  are  finely  seen  from  the  high 
fields  here,  and  I  did  see  them  on  my  return  in  all  their  glory,  but  now 
the  distance  was  all  grey,  and  not  a  peak  pierced  the  dull  skv. 

The  Lords  of  Faucigny  once  dwelt  here  in  great  strength,  and  were 
doubtless  formidable  neighbours,  and  the  fair  Beatrix  of  Savoy  pro- 
bably held  here  more  than  one  Court  of  Love,  in  what  was  the  Hotel 
Rambouillet  of  the  day;  for  alike  in  character  were  those  pedantic  and 
poetical  re-unions,  where  questions  of  no-meaning  was  decided. 

Beatrix,  whose  beauty  was  the  theme  of  all  Qie  poets  of  her  day,  is 
said  to  have  built  this  castle.  Few  of  her  compositions  have  been 
handed  down,  but  the  following  has  the  merit,  rare  in  those  times,  of 
being  addressed  to  a  legitimate  admirer,  no  other  than  her  husband, 
Raymond  Beranger,  who  probablv,  to  judge  by  their  tenor,  breathed  his 
lays  at  the  feet  of  some  other  idol. 

BEATRIX  DE  SAVOY  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 

I  FAiK  would  think  thou  hast  a  heart. 

Although  it  thus  its  thoughts  oonoeal. 
Which  well  could  bear  a  tender  part 

In  all  the  fondness  that  I  feel, 
Alas !  that  thou  would*st  let  me  know. 
And  end  at  once  my  doubts  and  woe. 

It  might  be  wdl  that  once  I  seem*d 

To  check  the  love  I  prized  so  dear. 
But  now  my  coldness  is  redeem*d. 

And  what  is  left  for  thee  to  fear  ? 
Thou  dost  to  both  a  cruel  wrong ! 

Should  dread  in  mutual  love  be  known  T 
Why  let  my  heart  lament  so  long. 

And  fail  to  claim  what  is  thy  own ! 


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159 


PARA;  OR,  SCENES  AND  ADVENTURES  ON  THE 
BANKS  OP  THE  AMAZON. 

BT   J.    E.   WARBBN. 

Regioni  immeiue,  unsearchable,  unknown, 

Btak  in  the  splendour  of  the  solar  zone.   Moktqoii ert. 

CHAPTBR   y. 
Life  at  Nazere. — Our  fayourite  Hunter  Joaquim. — The  Oarden  by  Moonlight. — 
The  Climate,— Its  Purity  and  Uealthfulness.— The  wet  and  dry  Seasona.>-A 
caterwawling  Serenader..-^An  Alarm.— Sunday. — ^An  extraordinary  Visit. — Our 
Departure  from  Nazere. 

N018BLB86LT  and  quickly  the  hoars  sped  on !— weeks  rapidly 
transpired !— and  still  we  lingered  amid  the  delightful  shades  of 
NaBere! 

Every  day  brought  with  it  some  new  sources  of  enjoyment ;  and 
objects  of  novel  interest  were  continually  arising  to  gratify  our 
senses.  Hunting  was  our  principal  amusement,  and  hardly  a  day 
passed  by  without  our  engaging  in  it.  Many  were  the  rich  plumaged 
birds  that  we  killed,  while  wandering  amid  their  own  beautiful  wild 
woods ;  many  the  curious  animals  that  met  with  a  speedy  death 
from  our  trusty  guns;  and  by  no  means  scanty,  the  number  of 
bright-hued  serpents  and  horrible-looking  reptiles  that  we  caught 
crawling  through  the  tall  grass,  or  stealing  beneath  the  thick  shrub- 
bery of  the  forest ! 

Our  hunting-excursions  were  always  undertaken  early  in  the 
morning.  Before  the  sun  had  shed  his  first  beams  over  the  enchant- 
ing scenery  of  the  garden,  we  were  always  up  and  accoutred  for  our 
morning's  ramble. 

Our  Indian  hunter,  Joaquim,  generally  accompanied  us,  and 
grateful  are  we  to  him  for  the  many  sporting  tactics  into  which  he 
initiated  us,  and  for  the  possession  of  many  splendid  and  rare  birds, 
which  we  should  not  probably  have  procured  without  his  assistance. 
He  was  auite  young,  not  being  more  than  nineteen  or  twenty  years 
of  age,  01  light  olive  complexion,  a  perfect  Apollo  in  form,  and  a 
mocfel  of  a  sportsman  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  The  slightest 
sound  never  failed  to  catch  his  attentive  ear — ^in  a  moment  he  knew 
from  what  kind  of  a  bird  or  animal  it  proceeded,  and  prepared  him- 
self for  instantaneous  action.  So  delicately  would  he  move  onward 
towards  his  prey,  scarcely  touching  the  ground  with  his  uncovered 
feet ;  crouching  so  skilfully  beneath  the  clustering  bushes  as  hardlv 
to  occasion  the  vibration  of  a  single  leaf;  cutting  away  the  thick 
vines  and  creepers  which  run  before  him  with  a  long  knife  which  he 
carried  in  hif  right  hand  for  this  purpose.  All  this  would  he  do, 
without  any  intimation  being  given  to  the  unfortunate  bird  or  ani- 
mal of  his  approach ;  having  once  fixed  his  eye  upon  his  victim, 
escape  was  useless— death  was  certain !  Raising  his  light  flint-lock 
gun  with  quickness  to  his  eye,  his  aim  was  sure,  and  the  startling 
report  which  followed  was  the  inevitable  death-knell  of  his  prey. 

While  in  the  forest,  Joaquim  wore  no  clothing  save  a  coarse  pair 
of  pantaloons— a  common  powder-horn  was  strung  around  his  sym- 
metrical neck-— a  small  pouch  of  shot  was  suspended  from  his  waist 


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160  PARA  ;   OR, 

— in  a  little  pocket  he  carried  a  box  of  percussion  caps — in  his  right 
hand  was  his  long  knife — in  his  left  his  faithful  gun — and  this  was 
his  entire  equipment. 

We  seldom  spent  more  than  two  or  three  hours  in  the  woods  in 
the  morning  ;  returning  to  the  Roscenia,  we  regaled  ourselves  with 
an  excellent  breakfast  under  the  verandah^  rendered  the  more 
delectable  from  the  exercise  we  had  taken^  and  the  circumstances 
under  which  we  despatched  it. 

A(^r  this  meal,  the  next  operation  was  to  skin  and  preserve  the 
best  specimens  of  the  gay-plumaoed  birds  we  had  killed  in  the 
forest.  For  this  purpose,  my  amiable  companion  (whom  I  fami- 
liarly called  Jenks),  was  wont  to  seat  himself  at  a  long  table,  on 
the  eastern  side  of  the  building,  where  he  prepared  the  specimens 
with  the  skill  of  an  experienced  artist  The  bodies  were  first  taken 
out,  a  little  arsenic  then  sprinkled  on  the  surface  of  the  skin,  and, 
lastly,  the  skins  were  filled  out  with  cotton  to  their  natural  size,  then 
put  into  proper  shape  and  placed  on  a  board,  in  an  exposed  situation, 
to  dry.  A  variety  of  tropical  birds,  some  green,  some  yellow,  and 
others  red,  contrasted  together  in  the  sunshine,  is  truly  a  gorgeous 
spectacle  for  a  naturalist's  eye. 

At  Nazere  we  took  dinner  at  one  o'clock — three  o'clock  is  the 
customary  hour  in  the  city.  This  meal  with  us  was  a  very  simple 
one,  consisting  of  soup,  boiled  beef,  cabbage,  beans,  and  sweet 
potatoes.  This,  with  the  addition  of  a  variety  of  fine  fruits,  (of 
which  there  were  at  least  twenty  distinct  species  to  be  found  in  the 
garden,)  was  our  usual  bill  of  fare.  Sometimes  we  killed  in  the 
forest  birds  of  the  pheasant  kind,  all  of  which  are  esteemed  delicious 
food.  On  account  of  the  ignorance  of  Chico  we  were  obliged  to 
depend  on  our  own  resources  for  cooking  them.  Although  we  had 
not  had  much  experience  in  this  line,  yet  we  succeeded  with  the  as- 
sistance of  some  pork,  butter,  salt,  pepper,  and  a  gridiron  of  our  own 
construction,  in  rendering  them  palatable  to  our  heart's  content 

The  afternoons  were  spent  by  us  either  at  the  Roscenia  in  reading 
some  interesting  book  beneath  the  shade  of  blooming  orange-trees, 
traversing  the  embowered  walks  of  the  garden,  dictating  letters  to 
our  friends  at  home,  or  in  visiting  our  different  kind  friends  in  the 
city,  whose  generosity  and  friendship  we  can  never  forget 

A  paradise,  indeed,  was  the  Roscenia  de  Nazere  by  moonlight ! — 
a  second  Eden  I — but  alas  I  without  an  Eve!  So  numerous  were 
the  trees  of  the  garden  that  they  constituted  a  fairy- like  grove,  and 
so  thickly  matted  together  were  the  branches  overhead  that  the 
moonbeams  fell  like  a  shower  of  gold  through  the  foliage.  The 
bright  birds  might  be  heard  chanting  their  vespers  among  the  trees, 
while  hundreds  of  singing  insects  were  buzzing  in  every  bush.  The 
air  itself  was  redolent  with  the  sweetest  perfume,  a  starlighted  canopy 
was  overhead,  and  we,  perhaps,  were  enjoying  it  all  under  the  ve- 
randah of  the  cottage,  in  talking  with  our  hunters,  or  the  pretty  In- 
dian maids,  who  haunted  with  their  presence  the  flowery  shades  of 
our  beautiful  garden. 

AUour  moments  were  replete  with  enjoyment  We  were  quite 
happy! — and  why  should  we  not  be  living  together  in  such  a 
romantic  and  charming  spot,  where  the  flowers  bloomed  throughout 
the  year,  and  where  everything  appeared  to  be  animated  with  beauty, 
perfume,  and  song?     Besides,  the  climate  was  of  such  exceeding 


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ADVENTURES   ON  THE  AMAZON.  161 

purity — so  aromatic  with  the  incense  of  flowers — and  of  such  deli- 
cious blandness^  that  it  was  truly  a  luxury  to  live  in  it.  Consump- 
tion, with  all  her  kindred  and  accompanying  evils,  has  never  as  yet 
invaded  this  mild  atmosphere ;  and  more  than  this,  even  coughs  and 
common  colds  are  almost  entirely  unknown.  All  diseases  which 
owe  their  origin  to  changes  of  temperature  in  the  air,  cannot  be  en- 
gendered here,  for  the  variation  in  the  atmosphere  does  not  amount 
to  more  than  twenty  degrees  from  the  commencement  of  the  year  to 
its  close ;  ninety  degrees  being  the  maximum,  and  seventy  the  mini- 
mum  temperature,  according  to  just  and  careful  experiments  made 
with  the  thermometer. 

Without  reference  to  temperature,  the  year  is,  in  the  province 
of  Para,  about  equally  dividea  into  two  seasons,  namely,  the  wet  and 
dry.  The  former  commences  about  the  middle  of  December  and 
may  be  said  to  extend  to  the  middle  of  June,  although  from  the  1st 
of  March  the  rains  gradually  decrease.  Throughout  the  rainy  sea- 
son severe  showers  fall  daily,  seldom  occurring,  however,  before 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  They  are  usually  accompanied  by 
bright  lightning  and  terrific  thunder,  and  continue  from  one  to  three 
hours.  The  rain  comes  down  with  such  extraordinary  violence,  and 
in  such  great  quantities,  that  one  who  had  never  witnessed  a  storm 
in  the  tropics,  would  be  astonished  beyond  measure,  and  filled  with 
emotions  of  awe,  if  not  of  grandeur  and  sublimity. 

During  the  period,  extending  from  the  middle  of  June  to  the 
middle  of  Julv,  and  which  has  been  called  "the  dry  season,*'  com- 
paratively little  rain  falls  in  the  city,  while  in  some  of  the  neighbour- 
ing islands  it  hardly  falls  at  all.  The  reason  why  the  rains  are  more 
frequent  in  the  city  is  undoubtedly  owing  to  its  superior  elevation, 
as  well  as  its  location  near  the  mouths  of  several  tributary  rivers. 
£ven  on  the  islands,  where  showers  fall  so  seldom,  vegetation 
flourishes  most  luxuriantly,  the  copious  dews  affording  that  nourish- 
ment to  the  plants  and  flowers  which  the  clouds  of  heaven  deny 
them. 

The  rainy  season  had  just  set  in  when  we  arrived  at  Nazere.  On 
account  of  the  sandy  state  of  the  soil,  we  could  not  have  established 
ourselves  at  a  better  place ;  for  here,  one  hour  of  sunshine  never 
failed  to  erase  all  traces  of  the  severest  storms. 

No  danger  need  be  apprehended  from  sleeping  in  the  open  air  in 
this  delicious  climate  at  any  period  of  the  year.  Indeed,  we  our- 
selves, have  frequently  passed  the  night  in  our  hammocks,  swung 
under  the  commodious  verandah  of  the  cottage  at  the  Roscenia, 
without  sustaining  the  slightest  injury. 

Our  slumbers  at  Nazere  were  sound  and  refreshing.  True,  we 
slept  little  for  the  first  few  nights,  owing  to  the  nocturnal  serenades 
of  an  old  tom  cat;  but  we  doubt  whether  anybody,  of  any  nerves  at 
all,  could  have  slept  better  under  similar  circumstances.  We  really 
had  some  thoughts  of  resorting  to  narcotics  for  relief!  We  were 
provoked — ^irritated — and  at  last  became  desperate. 

"  That  villainous  cat  shall  die,"  exclaimed  Jenks,  in  a  passion. 

"  What,  with  all  his  sins  on  his  head  J "  said  I ;  ''just  think  of  the 
enormity  of  his  offences,  mj  dear  sir,  before  committing  so  bloody 
an  act ;  pray,  give  him  some  little  time  for  repentance  I " 

"  Not  a  single  day,  by  heaven ! "  replied  my  companion ;  "  he 
shall  die  to-morrow !  " 


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162  para;  or, 

Oq  the  following  morning  we  observed  the  doomed  grimalkin 
quietly  reposing  on  a  little  grassy  knoll  within  a  short  distance  of 
the  house.  Now  was  the  time  I  But  feeling  some  reluctance  to  be 
the  perpetrators  of  the  murderous  deed  ourselves,  we  called  upon 
Joaquim  to  do  the  business  for  us. 

He  willingly  assented.  Having  loaded  his  gun,  he  stationed 
himself  within  a  suiuble  distance,  took  deliberate  aim,  and  fired.  A 
horrible  shriek — ^most  heart-rending  and  awful — immediately  broke 
upon  our  ears.  But  when  the  smoke  had  cleared  away  no  cat,  living 
or  dead,  was  to  be  seen.    He  had  vanished  in  the  adjacent  thicket. 

Two  weeks  passed  by,  and  our  nights  continued  to  be  undisturb- 
ed. We  felt  certain  that  our  tormentor  was  numbered  among  the 
dead.  But  what  was  our  astonishment  one  morning,  while  we  were 
seated  under  the  verandah,  to  see  this  diabolical  cat  enter  the  gate, 
way  before  us,  and  advance  with  a  downcast,  saddened,  and  repent- 
ant air,  up  towards  the  house. 

*'  Verily,"  said  Jenks,  **  I  have  always  heard  that  a  cat  had  nine 
lives,  now  I  believe  it." 

We  were  slightlv  infuriated  at  first,  and  determined  to  make  one 
more  effort  to  rid  ourselves  of  this  caterwawling  monster,  but  as 
soon  as  our  wrath  had  somewhat  abated,  we  came  to  the  merciful 
conclusion  of  '^  putting  him  on  his  good  behaviour  "^  for  a  *'  little 
season,"  and,  strange  to  say,  he  never  serenaded  us  again. 

A  little  circumstance  occurred  one  evening  that  gave  us  some 
alarm.  My  companion  had  gone  to  the  city,  and  I  was  lefl  entirely 
alone  at  the  Roscenia.  While  reading  a  book  under  the  verandah, 
by  the  feeble  light  of  a  single  lamp,  f  was  suddenly  addressed  by  a 
strange  voice,  and  looking  up,  I  beheld  a  black  fellow  that  I  had 
never  seen  before,  standing  at  my  elbow. 

<'Senhor,"  said  he,  "\i»d  your  gun,  and  lock  up  the  house,  for 
there  are  robbers  concealed  in  the  garden." 

Saying  this,  he  disappeared  so  quickly  that  I  did  not  have  time  to 
make  any  inquiries  of  him  concerning  his  startling  narration. 
Whether  to  believe  the  black  or  not  I  ha^ly  knew,  but  as  I  could 
not  imagine  any  other  motive  to  have  prompted  him  than  a  desire 
to  put  us  on  our  guard,  it  appeared  probable  that  he  had  given 
correct  information.  I  therefore  loaded  my  *'  revolver,"  and,  with 
it  in  one  hand,  and  my  sharp  wood-knife  in  the  other,  I  anxiously 
awaited  the  arrival  of  my  companion.  It  was  about  midnight  when 
he  reached  the  Roscenia,  and  of  course  he  was  much  surprised  when 
I  had  related  to  him  all  that  had  taken  place. 

The  night  passed  by — no  robbers  made  their  appearance — and  I 
never  afterwards  saw  the  black  who  had  in  such  a  mysterious  man- 
ner— in  the  silence  and  darkness  of  night — warned  me  of  impending 
danger.  This  was  the  only  incident  that  occasioned  us  the  slightest 
uneasiness  during  our  entire  stay  at  the  Roscenia — ^moreover,  we  did 
not  meet  with  a  single  accident. 

Sunday  was  the  most  noisy  day  of  the  week  with  us.  On  this  day 
we  had  numerous  visitors  from  the  city  ;  some  of  whom  came  out  to 
the  Roscenia  for  sporting  purposes,  keeping  up  a  continual  firing  in 
the  garden  from  morning  untn  night.  This  was  extremely  disagree- 
able to  us,  as  it  prevented  us  from  indulging  in  wholesome  reading 
and  useful  reflections,  as  we  would  have  preferred.  There  is  no  day 
set  apart  for  religious  purposes  in  Para.     Sunday  is  a  perfect  holy- 


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ADVENTURES  ON   TEUB  AMAZON.  165 

day^  and  b  more  particularly  marked  by  revelry  and  dissipation 
than  by  morality  and  sacred  observances.  Every  Sabbath  morning 
the  Largo  de  Nazere  was  the  scene  of  a  military  display,  performed 
by  a  brilliant  cavalcade  of  gailv-dressed  officers,  and  mounted  citi. 
zens.  Ader  going  through  with  a  series  of  military  evolutions  on 
the  largo,  they  often  stopj^  at  the  Roscenia,  for  the  purpose  of  re* 
freshing  themselves  with  fruit  and  wine.  They  were  a  gtij  and  ap« 
parently  happy  set  of  fellows,  very  gentlemanly  in  their  bearing,  and 
animated  and  cheerful  in  c<mversation. 

Politeness  to  strangers  is  one  of  the  striking  characteristics  not 
only  of  the  people  of  Para,  but  of  the  Portuguese  in  general.  Al- 
most everybody  you  meet  in  the  street,  provided  you  have  a  gentle- 
manly appearance,  will  offer  you  the  deference  of  taking  off  his 
hat,  and  at  the  same  time  saluting  you  with  the  popular  expression, 
Fiva,  senhor!  or  ''Long  live,  sir  J"  Besides  this,  the  Brazilians 
are  more  hospitable  and  social  than  they  have  ever  had  credit  for  in 
the  books  of  travellers.  The  reason,  probably,  why  they  have  been 
considered  so  distant  and  reserved  m  their  manners  towards  fo- 
reigners, is  on  account  of  their  general  ignorance  of  all  languages  but 
their  own.  Those  at  Para  who  could  speak  English  we  found  to  be 
exceedingly  sociable  and  friendly,  and  disposed  to  render  us  any  as. 
sistance  we  desired. 

Having  been  at  Nazere  nearly  two  months,  we  began  to  think 
seriously  of  taking  our  departure.  We  had  made  a  complete  collec- 
tion, almost,  of  aU  the  birds  and  animals  to  be  found  in  its  vicinity, 
besides  many  extraordinary  insects  and  curious  shells.  We  had  lived 
quietly,  in  solitude,  in  the  midst  of  romantic  natural  beauty,  and 
had  experienced,  perhaps,  as  much  pleasure  as  human  nature  is 
capable  of.  Need  it  be  said,  then,  that  we  had  become  exceedingly 
attached  to  the  Roscenia,  and  looked  forward  to  the  period  of  leaving 
it  with  a  kind  of  melancholy  reluctance,  mingled  with  sorrow  and 
gloom. 

A  few  days  before  our  departure  we  were  honoured  with  a  visit  of 
so  singular  a  character,  that  we  cannot  forbear  giving  the  reader  a 
brief  description  of  it.  It  was  cjuite  earlv  one  morning  that  a  large 
and  moUey  assemblage  of  individuals  halted  before  the  gateway  of 
the  Roscenia.  What  they  were,  or  for  what  purpose  they  came,  we 
could  not  surmise.  They  were  so  ceremonious  as  to  send  a  voun^ 
man  in  advance  to  solicit  permission  of  us  for  them  to  enter.  We  did 
not  hesitate  to  grant  the  request,  and  soon  discovered  that  our  wor- 
thy visitors  constituted  nothing  less  than  a  religious  procession,  who 
had  come  out  to  the  Largo  de  Nazere  in  order  to  procure  donations 
for  the  benefit  of  the  Roman  Catholic  church, — a  small  pecuniary 
offering  being  expected  from  everybody. 

The  whole  number  of  persons  who  entered  the  Roscenia  could  not 
have  been  less  than  forty  or  fiftv,— of  which  number  at  least  one- 
half  were  women  and  children.  In  front  of  all  marched  half-a-dozen 
priests  or  padres,  dressed  in  flowing  scarlet  gowns,  bearing  large 
sun-shades  of  dazzling  red  silk  suspended  over  their  heads.  After 
these  came  a  group  of  bright- eyed  damsels,  crowned  with  garlands 
of  flowers,  and  profusely  decorated  with  golden  chains  and  glittering 
trinkets.  In  the  rear  of  all  was  a  number  of  young  children,  sport- 
ing with  each  other  in  all  the  freedom  of  innocence  and  nuditv  com- 
bined.   With  huge  bouquets  of  splendid  flowers  in  their  hands,  they 

VOL.  XXIII.  N 


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166  ADVENTURES  ON  THE  AMAZON. 

looked  like  a  band  of  little  Cupids  about  to  render  deference  at  the 
court  of  Flora.  Contrasting  the  striking  colour  of  their  dresses^  and 
ornaments,  and  flowers,  with  the  ever-living  verdure  of  the  over* 
hanging  trees^  they  constituted  a  brilliant  spectacle^  such  as  we  had 
never  l^fore  gazed  upon. 

One  of  the  damsels,  bearing  a  handsomely-carved  salver  of  solid 
silver,  presented  it  to  us  for  the  purpose  of  receiving  our  donations. 
Unfortunately  we  had  but  very  little  of  the  circulating  medium  on 
hand — merely  a  few  vintens — all  of  which  we  threw  at  once  upon 
the  silver  plate.  Our  pecuniary  resources  being  now  completely  ex* 
hausted,  judge  of  our  consternation  when  the  plate  was  handed  to  us 
a  second  time,  for  further  contributions. 

I  now  threw  a  bunch  of  cigars  on  the  plate,  and  the  result  was 
just  such  as  I  had  anticipated.  Instead  of  taking  the  slightest 
offence  at  what  I  had  done,  they  seised  the  cigars  with  eagerness, 
and  I  was  obliged  to  distribute  all  I  had  in  the  house  among  them, 
before  they  would  be  satisfied.  The  cigars  being  all  distributed, 
wine  was  asked  for,  with  which  we  proceeded  to  supply  them.  But, 
alas  !  what  were  the  two  gallons  of  port  we  had  purchased  the  day 
before  towards  satisfying  such  a  thirsty  crowd  ? 

Before  taking  leave  of  us,  a  sweet  little  maiden  handed  me  a 
miniature  image  of  some  one  of  the  favourite  saints,  which  she  de« 
sired  me  to  kiss.  I  took  the  image,  and  proceeded  to  do  as  she  re- 
quested ;  but,  by  some  unaccountable  mistake  I  missed  the  image, 
and  impressed  a  warm  kiss  upon  the  pouting  lips  of  the  youthful 
damsel — a  sacrilege,  indeed!  for  which  I  atoned  by  kissing  the 
image  many  times !  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  reader  will  oe  as 
lenient  and  forgiving  towards  the  writer  for  this  misdeed  as  was  the 
pretty  maiden  herself. 

Shortly  after  this  the  whole  party  withdrew,  with  many  thanks 
and  benedictions,  leaving  us  in  a  most  deplorable  condition  ;  all  our 
provisions  being  eaten,  our  wine  drunk,  and  our  cigars  smoked. 

We  were  sad,  indeed,  when  we  took  our  final  leave  of  Nazere.  It 
was  on  a  mild  and  sunny  afternoon,  and  all  around  was  ^uiet  and 
serene.  No  sounds  broke  upon  the  stillness,  save  the  rustkngof  the 
leaves,  the  murmur  of  the  insects,  and  the  chattering  of  the  birds. 
Our  thoughts  harmonized  with  the  plaintiveness  of  the  scene ;  for 
we  remembered  that  we  were  relinquishing /or  ever  the  blissful 
garden,  where  we  had  whiled  away  so  many  pleasant  hours. 

Strolling  slowly  on  towards  the  city,  we  frequently  stopped  for  a 
few  moments  by  the  way,  to  exchange  salutations  with  our  Indian 
neighbours,  and  to  tender  to  all  the  pretty  maidens  our  parting 
adieu.  Joaquim  accompanied  us  as  far  as  the  Largo  da  Palvora, 
where,  after  shaking  us  each  heartily  by  the  hand,  while  a  tear  stood 
in  his  noble  eye,  he  bade  us  farewell.  We  were  extremely  sorry  to 
lose  so  valuable  a  hunter,  and,  in  testimony  of  our  esteem  and  appre- 
ciation of  the  services  he  had  rendered  us,  we  presented  him  with  a 
single-barrelled  gun,  which  we  had  purchased  for  him  in  the  city. 

It  was  near  sunset  when  we  arrived  at  Mr.  Campbell's  house,  a 
lofty  stone  dwelling,  with  balconies  fronting  each  of  the  upper 
windows.  Here  we  intended  remaining  for  the  ensuing  week ;  at 
the  expiration  of  which  time  we  proposed  making  an  excursion  to 
Caripe,  a  neglected  though  beautiful  estate,  situated  on  a  small 
island  within  twenty  miles  of  Para. 


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167 
WHAT  TOM  PRINGLE  DID  WITH  A  £100  NOTE. 

WITH   AN  ILLUSTRATION  BT  J.   LBBCH. 

Whbther  a  certain  place,  the  latitude  and  longitude  of  which  are 
more  a  matter  of  ^th  than  of  geographical  certainty,  be  <<  pa^ed 
with  good  intentions/'  may  sometimes  be  doubted,  seeing  that  a 
hundred  pound  note,  the  realization  of  the  best  intention  in  the 
world,  and  on  the  part  of  the  most  prudent  personage  in  the  world, 
has  seen  the  light.  Tom  Pringle's  intention,  happily  conceived,  and 
brilliantly  executed,  was  not  abortive,  and  therefore,  according  to 
the  iq>ophthegm,  was  not  to  be  found  among  the  burnt  offerings  of  the 
lower  regions. 

Tom  Pringle  was  a  man  of  purpose,  as  immovable  as  the  well-worn 
stool  that  was  screwed  to  the  floor  of  one  of  <'  the  oldest  houses  in 
the  city."  He  formed  a  resolution  at  the  end  of  seventeen  years* ^ 
assiduous  clerkship — a  good  ^*  intention,**  if  you  will,  to  become  inde- 
pendent, and  he  cherished  it  too  warmly  to  let  it  out  of  his  own 
keeping,  much  less  that  it  should  be  found  among  the  splendid 
abortions  with  which  the  unchristian  locality  above  mentioned  is  said 
to  be  paved. 

Few  men,  with  an  ambition  higher  than  Tofti  Pringle's  stool,  ever 
consent  to  be  servants,  without  the  lurking  hope  of  being  at  some 
time  or  other  master.  Tom  was  not  exempt  from  the  aspiration. 
He  conceived  the  idea,  he  brought  it  forth  with  much  travail. 
He  was  in  general  somewhat  of  an  unstable  disposition.  He  went  to 
his  office  in  Threadneedle  Street,  at  nine  a.  m.,  left  at  five  p.  m., 
with  the  precision  of  the  postman,  and  somewhat  with  the  haste  of 
that  functionary.  He  was  getting  grey  in  the  midst  of  these  peripa- 
tetics. It  occurred  to  him  as  he  occasionally  ogled  a  bit  of  looking- 
glass  thrust  between  the  leaves  of  some  blotting  paper,  that  he  was 
getting  a  few  supplementary  wrinkles.  Baldness,  ^  d'ows'  feet "  at 
the  side  of  both  eyes,  were  pretty  plain  indications  that  he  was  not 
the  man  he  formerly  was. 

Tom  would  sometimes  strive  to  beguile  the  ennui  of  '^  office  hours" 
by  a  harmless  flirtation  with  the  pretty  Cinderella,  who  usually  made 
the  office  fire.  She,  in  her  turn,  endured  rather  than  permitted 
those  little  escapades.  When  these  would  become  rather  obtrusive, 
she  never  failed  to  remind  him  of  the  enormity,  and  of  the  difference 
between  their  ages.  The  little  slattern,  riant  and  coquettish  as 
seventeen  summers,  and  the  privilege  of  poking  the  office  fire,  and  a 
little  fun  at  the  derk  could  make  her,  stole  noiselessly  out  one  day 
after  a  short  lecture  on  the  platonics  of  the  derk. 

Tom  could  not  endure  Uiat  his  self-love  could  be  thus  rebuked 
by  the  maiden.  He  was  willing  to  attribute  to  the  coyness  of  his 
female  friends  certain  averted  glances,  which  plainly  hinted  that 
''youth  and  age  cannot  yoke  together,"  and  the  knowledge  made 
him  sad.  Somebody  has  said,  and  with  truth,  if  you  want  to  see 
what  changes  time  and  the  world  may  have  wrought  in  your  out- 
ward man,  look  the  first  female  acquaintance  you  meet  in  the  face, 
and  her  reception  of  you  will  settle  the  question.  The  little  Cin* 
derella  of  the  office  fire,  did  that  office  for  Tom  Pringle.     He  be- 

K  2 


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168  WHAT  TOM   PRIN6LE  DID. 

came  grave  and  abstracted  on  resuming  his  seat  at  his  desk  next 
day.  His  foot  oscillated,  like  his  though ts,  from  the  stool  on  which 
he  sat.  He  rocked  his  body  to  and  fro^  as  if^  like  a  restless  babe, 
he  wanted  to  compose  it. 

In  a  fit  of  splenetic  abstraction  his  eyes  made  their  way  through 
the  vista  formed  by  the  day-book  and  ledger,  and  fixed  themselves 
sternly  on  the  palisadings  of  an  old  church  that  overshadowed  his 
little  sanctum.  A  thousand  times,  in  blither  mood,  and  before  any 
body  could  hint  anything  about  **  iron  locks,"  or  ere  a  crow's  foot 
disturbed  his  serenity,  had  he  looked  through  the  same  vista,  and 
his  eyes  lighted  on  the  same  stem  old  pile.  Then,  there  was  no 
corrugation  on  the  brow.   But  the  little  maiden  had  worked  wonders. 

^'  It  won't  do,"  said  Tom,  "  not  by  no  means ;  no  use  in  staveing 
them  off,  they  will  come,  and  the  little  un's  eye  as  it  took  in  my 
bald  head  and  front,  crows'  feet,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  is  as  good 
as  a  sermon  and  no  mistake;  soh,  sohl"  and  Tom  remained  for 
full  seven  minutes  and  a  half  in  a  peevish  abstraction,  staring  alter- 
nately at  the  old  church,  and  at  two  sparrows  that  had  a  terribly 
long  flirtation  on  the  palisades  that  hemmed  it  in.  The  conference 
between  the  sparrows  might  have  been,  for  anything  he  knew  on  **  the 
affairs  of  the  church."  It  lasted  a  long  time ;  and  as  he  looked  at  the 
little  triflers,  he  felt  blistering  tears  make  their  way  through  his  bony 
fingers  and  fall  upon  the  blotting  paper,  which  served  as  a  kind  of 
cushion  for  his  elbows.  They  mingled  with,  and  diluted  the  ink  that 
caprice  or  accident  had  blotched  it  with.  He  paused  a  moment  to 
see  what  kind  of  figure  dried  up  tears  mingled  with  ink  would  make 
in  one  of  the  blotting  books  of  an  old  house  in  the  city.  They  were 
not  such  as  Cocker  would  have  lef^  on  the  veriest  waste  paper ;  but 
the  particular  leaf  on  which  they  fell,  had  a  peculiar  charm  for  Tom, 
and  he  tore  it  off  when  the  tears  were  thoroughly  soaked  in,  and 
carefully  folded  it,  then  placed  it  in  a  black  leathern  trunk  that 
occasionally  served  as  dinner  table  and  desk.  As  he  bent  over  the 
old  trunk,  and  turned  up  its  miscellaneous  contents,  his  eye  lighted 
on  the  accumulations  of  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  of  clerkship 
to  one  or  two  old  houses,  in  the  shape  of  a  three-pound  note,  and  he 
absolutely  grew  pale  at  the  sight.  It  was  carelessly  laid  on  some 
waste  papers,  and  had  passed  through  many  hands. 

'<  You  've  run  your  course  my  fine  fellow,"  said  the  clerk,  as  he 
despondingly  lifted  it  It  was  identically  the  same,  that  some  years 
before,  he  had  deposited  in  the  old  black  trunk.  **  It  ought  by  this 
time,  to  have  been — ^let  me  see,  fifteen  twenties,  or  three  hundred 
pounds.  Besides  douceurs  and  christmafr-boxes — ^goodness  gracious 
me,  can  it  be  possible  ?  And  out  of  the  three  hundred  that  might 
have  been  stowed  away,  in  this  old  fellow,"  peevishly  giving  the  old 
trunk  a  kick,  '<  there  is  but  a  solitary  three  pound  note,  and  not 
another  to  keep  it  company !"  He  laid  the  bank  note  on  the  leaf  of  the 
blotting  book,  despondingly  closed  the  trunk,  and  carefully  locked  it 
What  affinity  or  association  existed  between  an  old  leathern  trunk 
and  a  broken  bit  of  looking-glass,  was  best  known  to  Tom,  it  passes 
ordinary  comprehension,  but  he  mechanically  drew  out  from  between 
the  leaves  of  the  blotting  book,  a  cracked  piece  of  looking-glass,  at 
which,  and  at  the  black  trunk,  he  alternately  stared,  and  a  smile  stole 
over  his  haggard  face  as  he  exclaimed,  "  not  so  ver^f  old  but  that  I 


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WHAT  TOM   PRINOLE   DID.  169 

my  jet  send  a  few  crisp  bank  notes  to  keep  that  old  fellow  in  the 
black  trunk  company.  Let  roe  make  it  but  a  cool  hundred — I  will,  I 
un  determined  on  it,  I'll  be  independent — pooh,  nonsense — turned  of 
fiftj-two,  why  it  is  as  good  as  twenty-five  any  day.  I've  ink  and 
exertion  in  me  yet  for  a  good  score  years ;  I  '11  pare  and  cut  down, 
live  sparingly,  very  sparingly,  very,  and  then  at  tlie  end  of— let  me 
see  how  many  pains-taking,  close-fisted  years  somebody,"  and  he 
dashed  his  hand  against  his  heart  that  dilated  with  the  thought — 
*'  somebody  will  have  a  cool  hundred  or  two,  and  then  ugh  1  ugh  !  '* 
And  a  short  dry  cough,  given  with  rather  sepulchral  energy,  wound 
up  the  solOiquy  of  the  resolving  clerk.  He  thrust  both  his  hands  in 
desperation  to  the  bottom  of  his  pockets.  There  was  nothing  par- 
ticular either  in  the  act,  or  in  the  pockets,  but  it  was  the  instinctive 
"  carrying  out"  of  the  resolution  Tom  Pringle  made  to  grow  rich — to 
''realise,**  and  become  the  master  of  what  thenceforth  took  possession 
of  his  whole  soul — a  cool  hundred  or  two. 

When  a  new  light — of  other  days — days  present,  or  of  those  that 
yet  may  be  vouchsafed,  breaks  in  upon  a  man  turned  of  fifty-two,  it 
is  strange  that,  with  our  irrepressible  yearnings  after  immortality, 
when  the  curtain  of  eternity  gets  a  premonitory  shake,  as  it  generally 
does  at  fifly-two,  the  light  which  breaks  in  upon  such  a  man  is 
rarely  a  light  from  within,  or  from  above.  It  is  a  half-resentful,  half- 
regretful  feeling  for  the  loss  of  that  time  in  which  money  might  have 
been  accumulated,  during  which  he  might,  if  thrifty  and  provident^ 
have  sown  the  kernel  of  a  plum,  or,  at  least,  of  a  ''  golden  pippin'*  or 
two.  The  disconsolate  clerk,  like  his  betters,  set  up  the  money  standard 
by  which  opportunities,  time,  and  even  eternity  might  be  tried. 

He  was  not  exempt  from  the  weakness  which  besets  alike  the  prime 
of  manhood  and  the  decrepitude  of  age ;  and  he  wept  at  the  thought, 
— ^first,  that  he  was  turned  of  fifly-two,  and,  secondly,  that^  after  the 
giueties  and  gravities  of  that  period,  but  a  solitary  three  pound  note 
was  all  he  could  boast  of  as  the  available  balance  m  his  exchequer. 

Some  little  resentful  feelings  he  entertained  too  for  being  so  unce- 
remoniously reminded  by  the  little  Cinderella  of  the  office  fires,  of 
premature  baldness,  and  crows'  feet.  But  youth,  particularly  of  the 
gentler  sex,  finds  a  malicious  pleasure  in  picking  holes  in  the  wrapper 
of  decaying  humanity ;  and  though  a  nod  of  recognition, — when  in 
particular  good  humour — a  playful  pat  on  the  head,  occasionally  a 
chuck  under  the  dimpling  chin  of  the  little  maiden,  were  all  the  ap- 
proaches Tom  ever  made  towards  a  little  harmless  flirtation,  yet  it 
justified  her  in  bidding  him  *'keep  his  hands  to  himself,'*  and  in 
eliciting  a  few  of  those  coquettish  retorts,  which,  as  we  have  seen 
disturbed  the  complacence  of  the  clerk,  and  let  in  a  flood  o£  feeling 
and  apprehension  that  tinged  his  after  life. 

Tom  read  his  doom  in  the  eyes  and  altered  demeanour  of  the  young 
girl.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  tried  **  to  pluck  up"  and  look  smart,  It 
was  iu  vain  that  he  pulled  and  distorted  a  rebellious  lock  or  two  that 
still  found  a  home  on  his  brow,  but  which,  when  drawn  over  the 
bald  patch,  would  perversely  have  its  way,  and  fall  limp  and  languid 
where  it  was  not  wanted. 

Tom  Pringle  was  turned  of  fifty-two,  and  he  resolved — vain  effort  I 
— to  cheat  that  suggestive  period  of  twelve  or  fifteen  years — to  look, 
at  least,  if  not  to  feel,  a  dozen  years  younger.    One  may  as  soon 


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170  WHAT  TOM   PRINGLE   DID. 

cheat  fifly-two  lawyers  or  women  as  fiflj-two  years.  Tom  made  the 
attempt  to  chouse  the  latter  out  of  their  due,  but  not  being  particu- 
larly successful  at  a  brief  toilet  which  he  extemporized  over  a  bit  of 
looking-glass,  he  grew  sad,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  both 
felt  and  looked  that  awkward  period.  Another  source  of  uneasiness 
to  the  clerk  was,  that,  after  an  official  life  of  pen  and  ink,  and  regular 
attendance  during  '^office  hours,"  he  found  himself  only  three  pounds 
the  better  for  it.  In  the  bitterness  of  his  inmost  soul,  Tom  felt  all 
this  with  the  keenness  and  intensity  of  a  man  who  resolves  rather 
late  In  the  day  to  lead  another  sort  of  life.  What  that  other  sort  of 
life  was  to  be,  he  had  not  exactly  made  up  his  mind.  On  his  way 
home,  however,  he  resolved  it  should  be  in  the  pecuniary  way, — that  he 
should  economise  and  grind,  and  be  covetous,  and,  if  possible,  get 
rich ; — ^not  in  a  <'  year,**  however,  '<  and  a  day/'  but  in  the  fulness  of 
some  undefined  period. 

Tom's  ambition  was  to  be  considered  a  **  small  capitalist,'*  to*  be 
the  owner  of  at  least  a  hundred  pound  note.  The  idea  was  brilliant 
and  practicable,  and  as  he  warmed  up  beneath  its  cheering  influence, 
he  gave  a  rap  of  more  than  usual  vivacity  at  the  door  of  his  humble 
domicile  in  one  of  the  suburban  ruralities.  The  slamming  of  sundry 
doors  to  prevent  the  inquisitive  look  of  the  supposed  stranger,  a  hasty 
settling  of  the  scanty  stair-carpet,  ouite  put  out  of  its  way  by  the 
rush  down  stairs,  and  a  more  than  ordinary  time  spent  in  opening  the 
door,  to  give  time  to  reconnoitre  the  stranger,  hinted  to  the  excited 
clerk  that  he  had  taken  unusual  pains  to  announce  himself. 

Miss  Priscilla  Blossom,  as  she  opened  the  door  with  expectation  on 
tiptoe,  made  no  secret  of  her  chagrin  at  finding  it  was  only  Mr.  Prin« 
gle.  Tom  was  exactly  eleven  years  a  lodger,  and  much  freedom  with 
the  knocker  might  be  accorded  to  a  lodger  of  his  standing,  particu- 
larly seeing  it  was  a  first  offence.  But  she  couldn't  exactly  see  the 
necessity  there  was  of  putting  people  in  alarm ; — it  was  provoking, 
however,  to  have  the  alarm  given  by,  as  it  were, ''  one  of  the  family.** 
And  so,  instead  of  the  old  simper  and  look  of  quiet  welcome,  she 
took  her  revenge  by  looking  over  the  shoulder  of  the  derk  as  he  en- 
tered, and  very  hard  at  the  dead  wall  opposite.  That  was  a  cut  she 
thought  irresistible ;  and,  after  a  look  up  and  down  the  street,  the 
lady  skipped  with  more  than  her  usual  vivacity,  three  pair  up. 

A  kind  of  sentimental  acquaintance,  such  as  a  not  old  bachelor  may 
be  presumed  to  carry  on  with  a  lady  of  a  ^'  certain  age,"  and  which  the 
uncertain-aged  lady  may  be  presumed  to  encourage  without  compro- 
mising the  dignity  of  spinsterhood — was  carried  on  between  the  cierk 
and  Miss  Priscilla  Blossom.  The  *<  quiet  silent  attentions"  of  the 
clerk  were  permitted,  and  as  time  and  Miss  Blossom  wore  on,  were 
even  encouraged.  But  the  cold  calculating  look  of  Mr.  Pringle,  as  he 
brushed  by  the  maiden,  was  rather  alarming.  He  never  looked  so 
before,  and  as  he  took  possession  of  his  little  antiquated  room  on  the 
first  floor,  and  sharply  drew  the  door  after  him.  Miss  Priscilla  Blossom 
thought  that  there  was  ^  something  out  of  the  common"  amiss  with 
Mr.  Pringle.  That  gentleman's  uneasy  pacing  up  and  down  the  room, 
interrupted  by  a  passionate  exclamation,  and  the  desponding  cry  of 
*<  fifty  two*'  uttered  in  a  half- frantic  tone,  prevented  Miss  Blossom 
ftom  knowing  what  was  going  on,  or  properly  taking  advantage  of  her 
position  at  the  key-hole.  Miss  Blossom  in  this  particular  scrupulously 


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WHAT  TOM   PRINGLE  DID.  l7l 

fulfiUed  the  Scriptural  injunction, — she  diligently  **  watched  "  the  un- 
easy movements  of  the  clerk  as  he  fidgeted  ud  and  down  the  room, 
and  took  note  of  several  exclamations  which  she  thought  had  some 
significance  for  herself. 

''  Now  let  me  see/'  said  Pringle,  as  he  cut  himself  short  in  the 
midst  of  a  towering  soliloquy,  <'  economy  and  no  matrimony — that 's 
the  point.  'Taint  that  she 's  too  old,  but  she  has  no  money,  and  love 
at  fil\y-two  without  some,  is  clean  nonsense.  It  would  not  be  endured 
in  the  city.  On  the  Exchange  it  would  hardly  pass;  and  the  firm — 
the  firm — ^what  would  they  say  ?  What  would  that  larger  firm,  the 
world  say  ?  " 

The  excited  clerk,  in  a  vain  endeavour  to  know  what  would  be 
thought  in  these  several  quarters  of  his  projected  scheme,  lifted  his 
hands  in  agony  of  apprehension,  and  as  he  allowed  them  to  fall  by 
his  side  in  an  effort  at  resignation,  he  dropped  into  that  easy  chair 
which  the  provident  Miss  Blossom  had  furnished.  He  buried  himself 
in  its  ample  recesses,  and  did  the  same  charitable  work  for  his  head, 
which  be  buried  in  his  hands.  Now,  burying  thoughts  alive  has  been 
found  no  bad  way  of  resuscitating  them.  Tom  had  no  sooner  made  up 
his  mind  that  it  was  time  to  accumulate,  to  get  at  the  right  side  of  a 
hundred  pound  note  or  thereabouts,  than  another  element  of  uneasi- 
ness was  added  to  his  stock : — ^he  was  fifty-two  years  old,  and  he 
never  thought  of  it.  By  a  kind  of  sentimental  connexion — an  onning 
and  offing — ^he  had  half  committed  himself  to  Miss  Priscilla  Blossom. 
That  young  lady — ^for  the  privilege  of  spinsterhood  is  always  to  be 
extremely  young — thought  that  the  partial  committal  in  an  affair  of 
the  heart  was  tantamount  to  a  matrimonial  engagement,  and  was 
therefore  at  ease  on  the  subject,  believing  that  time  and  assiduitpr 
would  work  a  matrimonial  miracle  in  her  favour.  But  the  age  of  mi- 
racles, like  that  of  chivalry,  is  gone  by.  *'  Thou  shalt  not  marry  ex- 
cept well"  is  a  species  of  eleventh  commandment  which  prudent  men 
are  very  observant  of;  and  although  Tom  was  an  indifferent  observer 
of  the  decalogue,  he  compromised  for  his  breach  of  it  by  a  rigid  ob- 
servance of  this  same  eleventh  commandment 

He  determined  to  become  a  very  miser, — to  grind,  pinch,  and  pare 
down  and  lop  off  all  superfluities  that  might  in  future  interfere  with 
the  great  economical  purpose  of  his  life.  Among  other  luxuries,  that 
of  matrimony  was  even  given  up.  '*  Matrimony  at  fifty-two,  and 
a  three  pound  note  to  begin  the  world  with — the  idea  was  preposte- 
rous T 

The  agony  of  mind  which  a  rather  elderly  gentleman  endures  when 
called  upon  to  revolutionize  his  habits,  is  great.  The  desponding 
clerk  felt  it  very  acutely.  The  old  sofa  on  which  he  ruminated  this 
bitter  cud  shook  beneath  him.  He  ground  his  teeth  pretty  distinctly, 
and  to  the  soft,  hesitating  rap  at  the  door  he  blurted  out,  '*  It  can't 
be  done — it  can't  be  done  I     Come  in." 

'*  But  it  is  done,  Mr.  Pringle,  and  to  your  liking,"  said  the  sofl, 
silvery  voice  of  Miss  Blossom,  as  she  darkened  the  door  of  Tom's  little 
apartment  with  a  plate  of  nicely  stewed  tripe,  with  a  snow-white  nap- 
km  over  that,  and  over  that  again,  looking  a  gracious  invitation,  the 
yet  beaming  countenance  of  the  happy  spinster. 

<'  Very  kind  of  you.  Miss  Blossom,**  said  Pringle,  as  he  felt  the 
whole  of  his  economical  schemes  dissolve  as  the  smoking  platter  sent 


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172  WHAT  TOM   PRINGLE  DID. 

up  its  grateful  odour.  <'  But  you  were  thinking  of  tripe;  my  thoughts 
ran  upon  thrift.  It  can  hardlj  be  done»*'  continued  the  clerk^  again 
relapsing  into  his  economic  mood ; — **  and  if  it  could,  it  ought  not. 
What  I  perpetrate  that  awful  thing  at  fifty-two  1 — monstrous  1" 

The  simple  maiden  could  not  conceive  the  affinity  between  a  nice 
dish  of  tripe  and  these  incoherent  expressions,  and  bending  on  the 
abstracted  clerk  a  pair  of  eyes  that  had  not  yet  quite  lost  their  powers 
of  interrogation,  she  said  playfully  : 

"  What 's  done  can't  be  undone,  Mr.  Pringle.  Now,  your  dinner  is 
done  to  a  turn,  and — there,  let  me  help  you." 

There  was  so  much  kindness  in  the  tone  of  the  maiden,  so  much 
sympathy,  that  while  he  mechanically  bolted  his  food,  he  fixed  a 
maudlin  pair  of  eyes  on  her,  and  caught  himself  in  the  act  of  fondling 
with  her  white  hand.  A  quiet  smile  of  happiness  indicated  the  plea- 
sure of  the  spinster  at  this  approach  to  his  former  self. 

**  So  you  think  me  in  love,  Miss  Blossom,**  said  the  clerk,  petu- 
lantly flinging  down  his  knife  and  fork.     **  Of  course  you  do." 

*'  You  don't  like  your  dinner,  Mr.  Pringle,"  said  the  lady,  getting 
very  pale ;  "  or,  perhaps,  you  don't  like  m-m-me,"  she  said,  hysteri- 
cally sobbing.  *'  You  've  lost  your  appetite,  and  you  're  not  so— so— 
f-fo-fond  as  you  used  to  be,  and " 

**  There  now,  that'll  do,"  whimpered  the  clerk,  as  he  brushed  away 
a  tear  with  the  corner  of  the  table-cloth. 

Pringle  took  two  or  three  impatient  turns  round  the  room,  wriggled 
his  spare  form  into  an  attitude  of  determination,  and  approaching  the 
maiden  with  a  grave  if  not  stem  air,  he  said : 

**  So— so,  you  don't  think  me  fond.  Miss  Blossom, — and  you  're 
right  Pooh— stuff — nonsense  !  Fond  at  fifty-two  I — ^'tis  all  gammon 
—don't  believe  it — don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  It  is  not  in  us  at  forty, 
much  less  at  fifty-two, — and  I  'm  that.  Don't  believe  me  if  I  should 
say  I  am.  A  man  of  fifty  is  fond  of  nobody  but  his  wretched  self, 
loves  nobody !  Reverse  the  picture :  make  it  twenty-five,  and  Uiere 
is  some  chance.  But,  believe  me.  Miss  Blossom,  at  twenty-five  man 
may  toy  with  beauty's  chain  without  counting  the  links ;  but  at  fifty- 
two  every  link  should  be  made  of  fine  gold,  to  enable  him  to  wear  it 
gracefully.    That 's  what  I  say,  Miss  Blossom." 

There  was  an  earnestness  mingled  with  banter  in  this  sally,  that 
fa;irly  puzzled  the  maiden.  She  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  him. 
She  had  comforted  herself  for  a  long  time  with  the  belief  that  their 
union  was  merely  a  matter  of  time,  but  the  idea  that  bis  parsimonious 
resolves  would  stop  short  of  matrimony  had  never  occurred  to  her. 

That  night  the  anxious  derk  entered  on  his  purpose  of  thrift  by 
taking  possession  of  a  room  <<  two  pair  up."  It  was  cheaper  than  the 
one  he  occupied,  and  served  as  a  fit  prelude  to  his  economical  pur* 
pose.  A  corresponding  change  was  observable  in  his  outward  man. 
^'  Plain  and  warm — plain  and  warm  is  good  enough  for  a  man  of  fifty- 
two,"  he  would  say,  while  he  wrapped  his  spare  form  in  a  penurious 
and  primitive  habiliment,  and  stalked  to  the  office  of  one  of  the  oldest 
houses  in  the  city.  By  dint  of  the  most  close  fisted  parsimony,  Prin* 
gle  began  to  accumulate.  The  old  leather  trunk  be^an  to  grow  in- 
teresting. It  was  respectable  in  his  eyes  as  the  savmgs-bank  of  his 
future  deposits.  It  was  no  longer  used  for  the  unworthy  purposes  to 
which  all  old  friends  are  uniformly  subject.    It  was  regularly  dusted 


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WHAT  TOM  PRINOLB  HID.  l73 

every  day;  and  when  it  became  the  depository  of  one  score  pounds, 
as  the  kernel  of,  perhaps,  a  future  plum^  he  carried  it  to  his  lodgings. 
Meantime,  no  useless  expense  was  allowed  to  diminish  his  savings, 
Tipplings  at  his  club,  and  the  club  itself,  were  fairly  given  up  as  incon- 
sistent with  the  growth  of  the  incipient  plum.  He  woula  pass  by  a 
theatre,  even  at  the  alluring  hour  of  half-price,  with  the  most  stoical 
indiffSerence.  All  pleasures  were  put  under  the  roost  rigorous  ban. 
Pringle  began  to  grow  a  perfect  ascetic  The  black  leather  trunk 
became  in  consequence  more  and  more  plethoric.  When  out  of  spi- 
rits, he  would  sit  in  a  strangled  beam  of  sunshine  that  would  find  its 
way  into  his  solitary  room,  and^  with  half-shut  eyes,  ogle  his  trea- 
sure. 

The  inventive  genius  of  woman  frequently  found  opportunities  of 
breaking  in  upon  his  musings.  Miss  Blossom  was  always  a  privileged 
intruder.  She  thought  it  was  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone ;  and  the 
bewitching  hour  of  tea,  with  an  infusion  of  small-talk,  affairs  of  the 
house  and  affairs  of  the  heart,  occupied  the  evening.  Not  that 
Pringle,  during  these  visits,  ever  allowed  his  thoughts  to  wander  from 
his  purpose,  or  lean  to  the  *<  soft  side  of  the  heart."  When,  how- 
ever,— for  Pringle  was  but  a  man — he  felt  a  premonitory  tug  at  his 
heart-strings,  he  would  look  sternly  at  the  old  leather  trunk,  and 
all  his  stoicism  would  revive.  The  soft  intruder  was  bid  good  night, 
and  the  obdurate  Pringle  would  sneak  to  his  bed  to  dream  till  morning 
of  the  old  leather  trunk  and  its  contents. 

Precisely  twenty-one  months  after  the  date  of  his  intention  to  be- 
come a  small  capitalist  on  his  own  account,  the  vision  of  a  real  hun- 
dred pound  note  rose  upon  his  sight.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
crisp  sterling  feel  of  the  paper.  He  looked  intently  at  the  words 
^  One  Hundred  Pounds,,"  in  large  capitals.  A  quiet  self-approving 
smile  stole  over  his  haggard  features.  The  corrugated  brow,  the 
crows'  feet,  the  limp  and  languid  hair — what  were  they  to  him  ?  He 
had  within  his  clutch  the  golden  vision  that  so  often  formed  the  sub- 
ject of  his  day  dreams,  and  distracted  his  slumbers  at  night 

But  did  Pringle  limit  his  ambition  to  a  "  cool  hundred?"  For  the 
honour  of  human  nature,  we  are  bound  to  admit  that  he  did.  And 
now  that  he  had  it,  he  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  He  was  mi- 
serable without  it,  he  was  unhappy  with  it.  But  still  the  conscious- 
ness that  he  could  call  that  sum  his  own-— own,  gave  an  animation  to 
his  features,  a  buoyancy  and  an  elasticity  to  his  form,  that  was  quite 
wonderful. 

Yet  daily  the  question  presented  itself  to  him, — what  could  he  do 
with  the  hundred  pound  note,  now  that  he  had  acquired  it?  And 
through  sheer  dint  of  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  it,  he  became 
unusually  pensive. 

''  I  made  it  single-handed,"  said  the  bewildered  clerk,  in  a  fit  of 
monetary  abstraction,  while  he  wistfully  eyed  the  water-mark  on  the 
note,  and  in  desperation  thrust  both  his  hands  to  the  uttermost  depths 
of  his  breeches'  pockets.  What  the  sequel  to  these  uneasy  thoughts 
was,  and  what  Pringle  did  when  he  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  his 
hundred  pound  note,  may  be  inferred  from  the  announcement  shortly 
after  made  by  the  parish  clerk  of  — — ,  marvellously  resembling  the 
banns  of  marriage  between  Thomas  Pringle,  bachelor,  and  Priscilla 
Blossom,  spinster.  S.  Y. 


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174 
THE    HEIRESS    OP    BUDOWA. 

A   TALB   OF   THR    THIRTY  YBARS'   WAR. 

Those  well  read  in  Oerman  history  will  readilj  recognise  the  story  of  Otto  of 
Wartenberg  and  Slabata.  The  catastrophe  is  historically  interesting,  as  it  s^^ 
ously  iu6uenced  the   fate   of  Frederic  King  of  Bohemia  and  his  English  wife 

Elizabeth. 

Thbre  was  high  festival  in  the  baron's  halls,  and  the  voice  of  music 
and  revelry  rose  above  the  howl  of  the  winter's  blasts  and  the  rushing 
torrents  without.  It  was  at  Christmas  time  that  the  proudest  and  love- 
liest of  Bohemia  met  within  the  castle  of  Budowa>  to  celebrate  the 
birthday  festival  of  the  baron's  heiress,  his  beautiful  daughter,  Theresa. 
She  WAS  not  his  only  child  ;  a  younger  daughter,  bearing  the  name  of 
Maria,  shared  in  her  father's  love,  and  in  her  sister's  beauty^  but  it 
was  well  known  that  the  vast  possessions  belonging  to  the  ancient 
house  of  Budowa  were  not  to  be  divided, — ^that  they  were  to  confer 
power  and  dignity  on  the  fortunate  husband  of  Theresa.  Nevertheless^ 
the  younger  sister  was  so  rich  in  personal  beauty,  and  a  thousand  soft 
and  winning  graces,  that  she  could  almost  compete  with  the  elder  in 
the  number  and  devotion  of  her  admirers.  He  who  now  sat  beside  her« 
breathing  into  her  willing  ear  enraptured  praises  of  her  radiant  beauty, 
had  been  long  a  suitor  for  her  smiles,  without  seeking  to  obtain  pos- 
session of  her  hand ;  and  there  were  some  who  whispered  that  he  only 
paid  his  court  to  the  younger  sister  as  a  means  of  obtaining  easy  access 
to  the  presence  of  the  heiress. 

The  dark,  earnest  eye  of  the  Count  Slabata,  and  the  soft  accents  of 
his  practised  tongue  had  seldom  pleaded  in  vain.  His  was  ''  a  face  that 
limners  love  to  paint,  and  ladies  to  look  upon>"  and  his  proud,  yet 
courteous  bearing,  was  distinguished^ alike  by  dignity  and  grace.  Bv 
birth  he  held  a  high  rank  amonest  the  nobles  of  Bohemia ;  and,  thousn 
rumours  were  abroad  that  his  large  family  possessions  were  seriou^y 
encroached  upon,  by  youthful  extravagance,  these  had  never  reached 
the  ear  of  Maria ;  she  believed  him  to  have  both  the  will  and  the 
power  to  place  her  in  the  same  hieh  position  that  birth  had  conferred 
on  her  more  fortunate  sister.  Stul  there  were  times  when  even  the 
vain  and  unobservant  Maria  had  doubted  the  completeness  of  her  con- 

3uest.  Not  now,  however, — not  now;  on  this  happy  evening  she 
eemed  there  was  no  longer  cause  for  fear,  and  she  listened  with  beat- 
ing heart  and  glowing  cheek  for  the  expected  words  that  would  inter- 
pret into  final  certainty  the  language  of  Slabata's  eloquent  look.  Yet 
Maria  was  even  now  deceived,  for  it  was  not  upon  her  the  most  earnest 
gaze  of  those  dark  eyes  was  anxiously  and  enquiringly  fixed. 

In  a  distant,  windowed  niche  of  the  lofty  and  spacious  hall  stood 
two  figures,  so  remote  from  the  glare  of  lieht,  and  the  central  tables 
where  the  feast  was  spread,  that  diey  were  almost  hidden  in  the  gloom, 
and  their  conversation  could  easily  be  carried  on,  undisturbed  by  the 
faint  and  distant  sounds  of  music  and  revelry.  Count  Slabata's  eye 
alone,  keen,  ^uick,  and  piercing,  had  recognized  the  graceful  form  of 
the  baron's  niece,— but  the  knight. who  stwd  beside  her,  who  was  he? 
There  might  be  many  in  that  crowded  hall  never  even  seen  before  by 
Slabata,  whose  youth  had  been  passed  in  foreign  and  distant  lands ; 
but  any  one  who  might  boast  sufficient  rank  and  power  to  entitle  him 


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THE  HEIBESS  OF   BUDOWA.  175 

to  tnch  intimate  oommune  with  Theresa  ooald  surely  not  be  unknown 
to  him.  It  was  not^  it  could  not  be  a  Bohemian  noble  to  whom  Theresa 
had  granted  this  comparatively  private  interview  ;  yet^  what  stranger 
eoold  have  found  an  opportunity  of  exciting  the  interest  his  keen  eye 
saiF  she  felt  ?  For^  though  the  haughty  heiress^  self-controlled  as  ever, 
held  her  stately  form  erect,  and  her  roseate  lip  compressed,  it  was  vainly 
that  the  white  arms  were  folded  firmly  across  her  breast,  in  the  attempt 
to  still  its  tumultuous  heavings.  Her  companion  stood  impassive.  He 
it  is  who  speaks,  and  the  lady  listens ;  but,  though  his  words  had  such 
povrer  to  move  her,  they  disturbed  neither  the  rigidity  of  his  features, 
nor  the  unbending  repose  of  his  attitude.  If,  indeed,  he  pleads,  it 
maj  not  be  a  suit  of  human  passion. 

The  short  interview  over,  Theresa  moved  thoughtfully  towards  the 
gaj  crowd,  who  now,  for  the  first  time,  observing  her  absence,  made 
'wvLj  88  she  approached,  and  the  knight — as  he  elides  silently  away,  the 
truth  flashes  on  Slabata  1     The  knightly  garb  had  been  only  assumed 
for  the  purposes  of  di^uise,  and  the  haughty  Theresa  was  carrying  on 
a  clandestine  intercourse  either  of  love  or  of  religion.    And,  vigilantly 
watched  over  by  the  pride  and  anxiety  of  her  stern  father,  it  was  pro- 
bable that  she  had  found  in  the  crowded  festival  the  only  opportunity 
for  contriving  further  interviews.    Successful,  too,  the  opportunity  had 
apparently  proved,  for  no  eye  save  that  of  Slabata  had  discovered  the 
retreat  of  the  heiress,  in  the  distance  and  gloom  of  the  remote  window- 
niche.    Her  father  was  just  then  lavishing  earnest  courtesies  upon  the 
royally-descended  mother  of  Count  Wartenberg,  and  the  count  himself 
had  not  yet  arrived.     While  the  causes  of  his  delay  were  being  vari- 
ously reported  among  the  assembled  euests,  the  large  portals  of  the 
hall  were  thrown  open,  and,  ushered  in  with  all  due  honour  and 
deference.  Count  Otto  of  Wartenberg  entered  the  apartment. 

Otto  was  one  of  Bohemia's  bravest  knights,  and  none  were  so 
fiivoured  as  he  by  the  smiles  of  its  fairest  maidens.  Gentle  and  cour- 
teous in  peace,  as  he  was  daring  and  gallant  in  war,  easy  success  awaited 
his  lightest  efibrts,  and  resistless  as  his  sword  on  the  battle-field  were 
the  eager  glances  of  his  clear  bright  eye,— the  eloquent  pleadings  of  his 
earnest  voice.  Slabata*s  star  ever  waned  before  this  presence*  There 
was  a  ^nk  and  ardent  sincerity  in  the  equally-polished  bearing  of 
Count  Otto,  that  threw,  as  it  were,  into  suspicious  relief  the  laboured 
graces  and  insinuating  flatteries  of  Slabata.  They  had  long  been  rivals 
-— rivab  in  their  pride  of  birth, — rivals  in  their  pride  of  manly  beauty, 
-—rivals  on  the  battle-field,  where  Slabata's  experienced  dexterity 
never  won  the  same  meed  of  popular  applause  as  the  frank  and  soldier- 
like bearing  of  the  fearless  Otto, — and  rivals  were  thev  now  on  a  field 
of  bitterer  conflict  than  the  sword  ever  waged, — rivals  for  a  woman's 
smile,  and  that  woman  the  beautiful  and  richly-dowered  Theresa. 
Otto's  sight,  quickened  by  passion,  had  penetrated  Uirough  the  treacher- 
ous semblance  of  Slabata's  pretended  love  for  Maria.  He  saw  that 
Theresa  was  the  real  object,  and  that  it  was  only  because  her  haughty 
coldness  forbade  direct  approaches  that  Maria's  easily-deceived  vanity 
was  used  as  a  means  of  constant  access  to  her  sister's  presence. 
Whether  Slabata  had  been  in  any  degree  successful.  Otto  knew  not — 
Otto  dared  not  guess.  Theresa  was  equally  repellant  to  all  those 
suspected  of  pretending  to  the  honour  of  her  hand,  whether  they  had 
rashly  pressea  their  suit  too  early,  or  whether,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
proud  and  sensitive  Otto,  avowals  of  love  had  been  carefully  shunned. 


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176  THE  HEIBES8  OP  BUDOWA. 

Ofteo,  as  the  disooaraged  count  turned  away  from  Theresa's  chilling 
courtesy,  his  eyes  would  faH  with  apprehension  and  mistrust  upon  the 
noble  form  ana  striking  features  of  Slabata.  Their  jealousy  was,  there- 
fore, mutual, — ^their  suspicions  eager,  restless  ;  but  the  frank,  generous 
riralry  of  Otto  differed  equally  with  his  noble  character  from  the  con- 
cealed enmities — the  deceitful  and  treacherous  nature  of  Slabata. 

As  Otto  advanced  throuffh  the  hall  the  brightest  eyes  shining  there 
sought  to  meet  his  in  appealing  memories,  or  in  hope  of  future  triumph; 
but,  as  his  eager  glance  traversed  the  fair  array  of  loveliness,  it  found 
no  resting-place.  At  this  moment  Theresa  reaches  and  mingles  with 
the  circle,  and  Otto's  stately  form  bends  lowly  at  her  side.  His  arrival 
had  been  waited  for  to  commence  the  graceful  dance  of  Bohemia,  which 
ordinarily  preceded  the  festival ;  claiming  his  acknowledged  right,  as 
highest  in  rank,  to  the  hand  of  Theresa,  he  led  her  forward.  Slabata 
next  advanced,  with  the  gay  and  happy  Maria ;  as  the  four  mingled 
together  in  the  movements  of  the  dance,  it  escaped  her  unsuspicious 
notice  that  her  partner's  restless  glances  were  as  often  fixed  upon 
Theresa  in  piercing  scrutiny  as  upon  her  in  tenderness.  Versed  in  all 
the  windings  of  a  woman's  heart,  the  wily  Slabata  had  long  sought, 
and  sought  in  vain,  to  penetrate  Theresa's  secret.  One  bitter  truth  he 
knew^-him  she  loved  not ;  but,  whether  the  noble  frankness,  martial 
fame,  and  chivalrous  bearing  of  Otto  of  Wartenberg  had  won  the 
fiftvour  denied  to  his  o\vn  eminent  personal  advantages,  even  the  piercing 
sight  of  jealousy  had  never  enabled  him  to  discover.  Whatever  were 
Theresa's  secret  feelings,  they  had  hitherto  eluded  the  anxious  scrutinv 
of  either  her  father  or  ner  lovers.  Nor  had  this  been  only  from  woman  s 
pride  or  woman's  waywardness.  This  night  for  the  first  time  they 
stood  revealed  to  herself.  A  blush,  a  smile,  a  sigh,  and  hope  sprung  up 
in  Otto's  heart ;  as  the  words  of  passion  burst  horn  his  now  unchained 
lips,  the  blood  rushed  to  Theresa's  heart,  and  deathly  paleness  over- 
spread her  fsice ;  her  eye  was  not  raised,  her  lip  was  not  stirred,  but  a 
tear  was  on  her  cheek,  her  soft  hand  was  not  withdrawn  from  his,  and 
Otto  knew  the  heart  he  wooed  was  won.  There  was  another  eye  that 
guessed  the  truth;  and  for  a  moment  Slabata's  beautiful  lip  was 
writhed  in  sudden  anguish,  but  a  smile  of  vengeance  succeeded ;  the 
prey  was  in  his  hands. 

The  personal  attractions  of  the  two  sisters  partook  of  a  straneely 
different  character.  The  striking  features,  the  majestic  form,  the  glow 
of  colouring  peculiar  to  the  nobly-bom  of  Sclavonic  race,  constituted 
the  brilliant  beauty  of  the  younger  sister,  Maria.  The  jewels  of  rare 
value  that  sparkled  through  her  dark  tresses  were  rivalled  by  the  lus- 
trous gloss  of  the  raven  ringlets  they  adorned ;  her  dark  eyes,  as  they 
melted  in  tenderness,  or  kindled  in  gaiety,  lit  up  her  young  feice  with 
a  still  more  winning  loveliness.  Her  smiles,  not  cold  and  rare,  like 
Theresa's,  but  gleaming  in  glad  and  quick  succession,  parted  lips, 
almost  too  full  for  beauty,  were  it  not  for  their  rich,  deep  colouring, 
and  finely  chiselled  form.  The  brilliance  of  her  complexion  acquired 
a  deeper  interest  from  its  ever- varying  hues.  The  full  tide  of  emotion 
never  rested  tranquil  beneath  the  clear  brown  tint  of  her  cheek,  but 
rose  and  fell  incessantly  with  every  passing  excitement  of  her  eager 
and  joyous  spirit. 

Satin  and  velvet  of  the  richest  and  brightest  dyes  imparted  an  air  of 
splendour  to  the  picturesque  national  costume  worn  by  Maria,— -one 
eminently  suited  to  display  to  the  best  advantage  the  brilliant  and 


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THE  HEIRESS   OP  BUDOWA.  177 

sUikiiig  charms  of  her  face  and  form.  Bat  Theresa^ — the  wealthy 
heiresB,  the  heroine  of  the  nighty  and  the  object  of  for  deeper,  more 
respectfol  homage,  was  habited  with  a  simplicity  at  that  time  equally 
foreign  to  the  taste  and  manners  of  Bohemia.  It  might  be  that  she 
deemed  the  statvttqae  simplicity  of  her  beauty  would  have  been  im* 
paired,  not  heightened,  by  any  decoration ;  for  no  jewels  sparkled  on 
her  snowy  brow>  no  variea  colouring  disturbed  the  dignified  repose  of 
ber  slight  yet  stately  form.  And  never  did  classic  sculptor,  in  his 
dream  of  beauty,  mould  a  form  or  features  of  more  fiaultless  propor- 
tkms  or  more  imposing  beauty.  Nevertheless,  the  earthly  charm  of 
warm,  speaking  colouring  was  not  there.  She  looked  and  moved  a 
queen,  but  her  sovereignty  was  exercised  not  only  over  others*  hearts, 
but  over  her  own  emotions.  Pride  spoke  in  every  quiet  glance,  in 
every  graceful  gesture  pride  mingled  with  her  eraoe.  The  complexion  of 
Theresa  was  as  dazzlingly  fair  as  her  sister  s  was  richly  dark  ;  fair, 
too>  were  the  sunny  folds  of  silken  hair,  braided  over  her  cheek  with  a 
simplicity  that  well  suited  the  features  they  were  neither  required  to 
shade  nor  to  adorn. 

In  these  features — so  delicately  moulded,  so  soft,  so  feminine  in 
their  refinement — who  could  have  read  the  secret  sternness  of  the  soul 
within  ?  In  one  alone  it  speaks :  the  firmly  compressed  lip,  exquisite 
in  its  chiselled  beauty,  hem  the  strong  impress  of  unbendmg  will,  of 
unconquerable  pride.  The  prophecy  of  her  future  fate  is  told  in  the 
stem  compression  of  those  faultless  lips ;  and  that  future  fate  is  ad- 
vancing fast;  even  while  she  treads  in  the  mirthful  dance,  it  ap- 
proaches nearer — ^nearer  still.  To-night  she  reigns  supreme  —  the 
centre  of  a  host  of  worshippers,  the  heiress  of  a  noble  house,  the  idol 
of  a  father's  heart ;— to-morrow — where  is  she  then  ? 

It  was  not  alone  the  fair-haired  beauty  and  the  unbending  character 
of  the  Saxon  race  that  Theresa  had  inherited  from  her  English  mo- 
ther. That  mother  had  been  bom  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  though  for 
many  years  she  had  yielded  a  feigned  assent  to  the  stern  commands  of 
her  lord,  in  an  apparent  relinquishment  of  her  childhood's  faith  and  the 
education  of  her  daughters  in  his  own  Calvinistic  opinions,  this  did  not 
last  to  the  end.  Fading  away  in  a  painful  decline,  lon^  aware  of  the 
inevitable  approach  of  a  lingering  death,  all  the  superstitious  belief  of 
her  creed  conspired  with  the  native  strength  of  her  character  to  make 
her  resolve  that  one  beloved  child  at  least  should  be  placed  within  the 
pale  of  salvation.  Theresa,  older  than  Maria, — ^the  intended  heiress 
of  her  father — inheriting  a  strength  of  character  and  firmness  of  pur- 
pose equal  to  that  of  her  unfortunate  mother,  while  it  was  uninfluenced 
by  the  same  warm  affections — was  the  more  fitting  subject  for  the  pro- 
jected conversion.  If  she  could  keep  the  secret  of  her  chauge  of  faith 
until  the  vast  possessions  of  Budowa  should  become  hers,  the  influence 
she  would  then  be  able  to  exercise  for  the  advancement  of  the  Romish 
religion  would  make  ample  amends  for  her  mother's  unholy  concessions 
to  a  heretic  husband.  Nor  was  the  dangerous  resolution  of  changing 
Theresa's  faith  formed  and  executed  alone.  The  Jesuits,  then  in  the 
height  of  their  power  and  influence,  and  ever  on  the  watch  to  arrest 
the  progress  of  the  Reformation,  had  known  from  the  first  that  the 
beautiful  bride  brought  home  by  the  baron  from  his  tour  through  Hol- 
land, belonged  to  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  ancient  Roman 
Catholic  families  in  England, 


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178  THE  HEIRESS  OF  BUDOWA. 

In  Bohemia,  howerer,  the  power  of  the  Jesuits  was  vigilantly  and 
jealously  watched  ;  and  they  aared  not  interfere  between  the  Calyin<- 
istic  baron  and  his  Popish  wife,  until  the  first  advances  were  made  by 
the  lady  herself.  For  manv  years  this  was  vainly  waited  for ;  and  it 
was  not  until  her  last  htal  disease  commenced,  that  the  dread  of  eter- 
nal punishment  determined  the  baroness  to  brave  all  consequences  ra- 
ther than  be  longer  deprived  of  the  consolations  of  her  religion.  The 
secret  maintenance  of  one  form  of  faith  while  she  openly  professed  an- 
other, had  trained  her  to  craft  and  dissimulation.  She  worked  on  her 
husband's  fears  and  affection  by  pleading  the  necessity  of  frequent 
change  of  scene  as  her  last  hope  of  recovery,  and  thus  contrived,  while 
at  a  distance  from  Budowa,  to  receive  the  frequent  visits  of  her  spiri- 
tual directors  from  Ingoldstadt.  In  this  city  was  situated  a  large  and 
powerful  establishment  of  Jesuits,  and  from  amongst  their  num^r  one 
was  artfully  selected  best  suited  to  work  on  the  youthful  mind  of 
Theresa,  and  influence  her  secession  from  her  father's  Calvinistic  faith. 

The  different  priests  of  the  Romish  church  who  from  time  to  time 
visited  the  dying  couch  of  the  Baroness  of  Budowa  came  to  the  same 
conclusion  respecting  the  carefully  studied  character  of  the  heiress. 
They  saw  that,  while  her  imagination  and  feelings  were  slightly  influ- 
ential on  her  opinions,  and  strongly  controlled  by  the  native  strength 
of  her  character,  it  was  through  the  intellect  alone  she  could  be  per- 
manently secured  to  their  church. 

Father  Eustace,  the  Jesuit  selected  for  this  purpose,  possessed  one 
of  the  sharpest  and  subtlest  minds  belonging  to  any  member  of  his 
order ;  and  he  pursued  his  task  so  successfully,  that,  before  Theresa's 
mother  died,  she  had  the  solemn  satisfaction  of  seeing  her  daughter 
professing  her  own  faith.  But,  at  the  very  moment  of  success,  an 
alarming  discovery  took  place.  In  the  confusion  caused  by  the  death 
of  the  baroness,  the  precautions  always  before  observed  had  been  ne- 
fflected ;  and  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  baron,  who  had  hurried 
nrom  Budowa  on  receiving  the  tidings  of  his  wife's  last  illness,  revealed 
to  the  injured  husband  that  the  woman  whose  death  he  so  passionately 
mourned  had  been  long  pursuing  a  system  of  deceit  and  fraud,  and  had 
not  only  lived  but  died  in  the  raith  she  had  feigned  to  abjure.  In  a 
frenzy  of  mingled  sorrow  and  resentment,  he  led  his  daughters  to  the 
death-bed  of  their  mother,  and  there  vowed  stern  revenge  against  any, 
even  the  nearest  and  dearest,  who  should  again  betray  his  trust,  and 
adopt  the  idolatrous  creed  of  Rome.  Maria  trembled  and  wept;  The- 
resa trembled,  but  she  wept  not ;  nor  did  her  spirit  quail  or  her  heart 
shrink  from  the  task  imposed  by  her  dying  parent,  and  involved  in  her 
vow  of  obedience  to  that  parent's  £&ith.  But  the  fearful  weight  of  a 
secret,  involving  not  her  own  ruin  alone,  but  that  of  the  cause  she  was 
pledged  to,  pressed  heiivily  on  her  heart,  and  blighted  the  happiness 
and  the  buoyancy  of  her  youth. 

Perfectly  appreciating  the  character  of  Theresa,  the  Jesuits  of  In- 
goldstadt were  contented  to  watch  over  their  devoted  pupil  at  a  distance, 
and  carefully  avoided  any  intercourse  possibly  involving  the  danger  of 
premature  discovery.  Whenever  any  communication  was  absdutely 
necessary,  the  experienced  caution  of  Father  Eustace  always  marked 
him  out  as  the  most  fitting  agent  for  the  dangerous  enterprise ;  and  he 
it  was  who  stood,  in  knightly  disguise,  beside  Theresa  in  the  distant 
recess. 

The  sudden  necessity  for  her  quick  decision  had  obliged  him  to  in- 


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THE   HEIRESS  OF  BUDOWA.  179 

car  this  imminent  risk ;  the  only  means  of  arranging  the  longer  inter- 
view he  deemed  necessary,  was  by  mingling  in  oisguise  in  the  throng 
crowding  the  baron's  halls  on  the  InrUi-day  festival,  and  by  a  well- 
known  signal  notifying  his  presence  to  Theresa.  He  then  coold  only 
trust  to  her  tried  cuscretion,  and  to  his  own  skill  and  cantion,  (whicn 
had  never  ^ed  him,)  to  escape  the  chances  of  discovery.  The  object 
of  his  mission  had  been  briefly  told  daring  the  interview  witnessed  by 
Slabata,  bat  it  was  an  object  too  important  to  be  trnsted  to  the  result 
of  the  persuasions  and  arguments  so  short  an  opportunity  afforded.  He 
therefore,  extorted  from  Theresa  a  promise  to  meet  him  again  in  a 
small  apartmeot  dedicated  to  the  religious  observances  of  her  fsith,  of 
which  she  constantly  kept  the  keys  in  her  own  hands.  They  were 
now  committed  to  him. 

When,  in  the  dreary  gloom  of  that  stormy  night.  Father  Eustace 
stood  again  before  Theresa,  he  had  resumed  the  habit  of  his  order,  and 
hoped,  by  his  solemn  and  dignified  aspect,  to  add  force  to  the  appeal 
he  was  about  to  make.  Never  had  the  exercise  of  such  influence  been 
more  strongly  heeded,  fur  he  read  in  the  firmly-compressed  lip  of 
Theresa,  even  as  she  humbly  knelt  to  receive  his  blessing,  that  her  de- 
cision, if  made,  would  not  be  easily  altered.  He  was  the  first  to 
speak :  Theresa  had  arisen,  and  stood  motionless  before  him.  He  first 
Inriefly  recapitulated  the  facts  he  had  previously  stated.  A  Roman 
Catholic  nobleman,  high  in  favour  with  the  emperor,  had  seen  the  pic- 
ture of  Theresa,  long  before  obtained  by  the  wily  Jesuits,  and  had  the 
interests  of  his  church  so  much  at  heart  that  this  sight  sufficed  to  de- 
termine him,  without  any  previous  interview,  to  seek  to  secure 
her  as  his  wife.  All  was  prepared  for  her  escape.  The  adventurous 
lover  awaited  her  decision  on  the  frontiers  of  Bohemia.  The  Jesuit, 
who  was  to  be  the  companion  of  her  flight,  was  there  to  unite  their 
hands,  and  the  marriage  once  concluded,  her  father  might  storm  and 
rage  in  vain.  Vainly,  too,  would  he  attempt  to  transfer  to  another  the 
splendid  inheritance  of  his  disobedient  child.  The  nobleman,  whose 
cause  the  Jesuit  pleaded,  was  all-powerful  with  the  emperor,  and  it 
was  certain  that  Theresa's  rights  could  be  successfully  supported  by 
force  of  arms. 

While  the  Jesuit  urged  on  his  listener  every  argument  his  religion 
could  supply — while  he  spoke  of  her  as  the  instrument  of  restoring  the 
true  £Edtn  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  her  loved  Bohemian 
land — ^while  he  reminded  her  of  the  freedom  from  constraint  and  dis- 
simulation-—of  the  enjoyment  of  religious  privileges  only  to  be  secured 
by  her  consent  to  the  proposed  marriage,  Theresa  listened  in  silence ; 
but  when  he  changed  his  tone,  and  talked  of  pomp  and  splendour,  of 
royal  favours,  and  courtly  homage,  even  the  wily  Jesuit  was  mistaken 
here.  Her  proud  heart  might  love  power,  but  she  scorned  its  symbols, 
and  she  listened  no  longer. 

"Father  Eustace,"  said  she,  impatiently,  "it  is  now  my  turn  to 
speak.  You  may  wonder  at  my  calmness,  for  you  saw  the  stronff  emo- 
tion your  proposal  first  excited.  But  then  every  ambitious  feeling  of 
my  heart  was  roused,  all  the  religious  influences  of  the  faith  you  teach 
were  arrayed  in  full  force  to  sway  my  determination ;  for  a  moment  I 
wavered,  and,  therefore  I  trembled — I  do  not  tremble  now." 

She  paused ;  even  Theresa's  spirit  quailed  before  the  confession  she 
was  about  to  make  to  one  whose  heart  had  never  known  the  power  of 
emotion. 


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180  THE  HEIRESS  OF   BUDOWA. 

Fixing  his  piercing  gase  searchingly  upon  her,  as  if  to  penetrate  the 
deepest  recesses  of  her  heart,  the  Jesuit  sought  to  take  advantage  of 
her  hesitation,  and  awe  her  into  obedience.  But  though  for  a  moment 
the  dark  eye  of  Theresa  fell  beneath  his  glance,  proudly  it  rose  again, 
and  never  was  the  same  tale  told  in  tone  so  cold  and  nrm  as  that  in 
which  she  spoke. 

While  her  words  were  still  falling  slowly  on  the  angry  ear  of  Father 
Eustace,  far  different  sounds^-sounds  of  wild  alarm — arose ;  the  door 
was  burst  asunder,  and  the  figures  of  armed  men  crowded  into  the 
apartment.  As  the  fierce  eyes  of  the  infuriated  baron  flashed  through 
the  gloom — a  sloom  only  dispelled  by  the  dim  light  of  a  single  lamp — 
he  saw  that  this  lamp  bumea  before  a  crucifix,  and  that  his  daughter 
dune  in  terror  to  the  figure  of  a  cowled  monk.  The  treachery  and 
deceit  of  years,  his  shattered  hopes  of  pride,  turned  in  the 
moment  the  father's  heart  to  galL  The  fire  of  vengeance  glanced  in 
his  savage  eyes,  as  he  grasped  the  loosened  tresses  of  his  beautiful 
daughter,  and  raised  his  weapon  in  the  act  to  slay.  It  was  Slabata 
who  saved  him  from  the  deadly  crime — it  was  Slabata's  hand  that  ar- 
rested the  descending  blow,  and  wrenched  the  sword  from  his  frenzied 
grasp.  In  a  moment  after  the  unhappy  father,  his  paroxysm  of  fury 
over,  folded  in  his  arms  the  senseless  form  of  her  who  had  been  once 
his  pride  and  joy,  then  cast  her  from  him  for  ever. 

During  the  confusion  caused  by  the  danger  of  Theresa,  the  Jesuit 
had  escaped,  and  when  the  victim  opened  her  eyes  to  sense  and  con- 
sciousness, she  beheld  before  her  only  her  father  and  Slabata.  The  old 
man  was  now  calm,  but  he  was  calm  for  vengeance.  Her  destiny  was 
spoken,  but  even  then  it  was  a  destiny  still  to  be  averted  by  the  renun- 
ciation of  her  abhorred  faith. 

*^  Never  1 "  was  her  only  answer ;  and,  though  the  hue  of  life  had 
fled  from  the  lips  that  uttered  it,  the  baron  read  in  their  stern  and 
rigid  compression,  a  resolution  as  indomitable  as  his  own. 

Many  leagues  from  the  baron's  castle  arose  an  abrupt  eminence  of 
considerable  height,  and  of  all  but  impracticable  ascent.  The  situation 
had  been  taken  advantage  of  in  very  distant  periods  for  the  erection  of 
a  massive  fortress,  almost  impregnable  from  its  situation.  The  tower 
of  Adelsberg  commanded  the  principal  pass  into  the  mountainous 
country  where  the  castle  of  Budowa  was  situated,  and  the  barons  of 
that  ancient  race  had,  in  times  of  war,  found  it  an  effectual  defence 
against  the  incursions  of  their  enemies.  £ven  in  times  of  peace  it  was 
still  garrisoned  by  a  few  trusty  followers,  and  though  the  secrets  of  the 
prison-house  never  reached  with  any  certainty  the  ears  of  those  with- 
out, it  had  been  often  whispered  that  any  enemy  of  the  house  of 
Budowa  who  had  suddenly  disappeared  from  among  men,  had  found  a 
living  tomb  within  the  massive  walls  of  the  gloomy  fortress  of  Adels- 
berg. But  not  even  in  those  lawless,  reckless  times,  did  the  supposi- 
tion ever  arise  that  in  this  dreary  confinemeiil  the  courted,  worshipped 
beauty,  the  richly-dowered  Baroness  Theresa  wasted  away  the  bloom 
and  promise  of  her  youth  and  charms.  Conveyed  thither  on  the  fatal 
festival  night  with  a  secrecy  shared  only  by  Slabata  and  the  govem<Nr 
of  the  fortress,  Theresa  was  abandoned  by  her  father  to  a  solitude 
which  would  have  bowed  any  heart  but  hers.  The  last  appeal  made 
by  Slabata  to  the  helpless  captive  proved  as  unsuccessful  as  his  suit 
had  ever  been  to  the  haughty,  flattered  heiress.    Theresa  refused  a 


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THE  HEIRESS  OF  BUDOWA.  179 

freedom  tbat  was  only  to  be  purchased  by  rewardinff  his  treachery,  and 
from  that  hour  his  disappointed  passion  turned  to  deadly  hate.  With 
his  altered  feelings  ranished  her  last  chance  of  liberty ;  for  Slabata 
firmly  guarded  the  fatal  secret  that  secured  to  him,  as  the  husband  of 
Maria,  the  splendid  inheritance  of  her  imprisoned  sister.  Theresa's 
death,  from  sudden  illness,  was  unirersally  beliered.  Her  obsequies 
had  been  performed  with  all  the  mournful  pomp  a  father's  love  and  a 
baron's  pride  required,  and  the  inmates  ot  the  castle  of  Budowa  had 
been  for  a  long  time  afterwards  shut  up  from  all  surrounding  inter- 
course, apparently  mourning  orer  their  afHlction.  But  Slabata  came, 
and  Slabata  wooed,  and  Maria  was  easily  won. 

Years  upon  years  have  passed,  as  quickly  to  the  desolate  inmate  of 
the  gloomy  tower  as  to  the  young,  the  prosperous,  the  gav.  Years 
upon  years  have  passed  and  brought  change  to  all  around,  but  to  her 
time  is  waveless,  no  ebb  or  flow  of  joy,  or  deeper  sorrow,  marks  his 
dreary  course.  Most  minds  would  have  sunk  under  the  relentless 
cruelty  that  prolonged  her  dreary  captivity ;  happy  for  Theresa  if  this 
had  been  the  fate  of  hers,  but  while  her  heart  hardened  in  anguish, 
and  all  the  softer  feelings  of  her  nature  gradually  withered,  her  proud 
intellect  rose  triumphant  over  the  wreck  of  her  heart,  and  ripened 
dailv  into  greater  capabilities  for  action  and  revenge. 

The  twelfth  anniversary  of  her  captiritv  was  reached,  and  Theresa 
listened  in  her  prison-tower  to  the  howling  blast  and  the  rushing 
torrent  without. 

Time  and  captivity  had,  however,  produced  no  change  in  her  queenly 
beauty.  The  alteration  was  within ;  where  the  spint  moves  onward, 
ever  onward> — a  change  not  like  that  of  the  outward  form,  short  and 
fleeting  like  the  summer  hue  of  a  beautiful  flower,  but  solemn,  abiding, 
awfuL  Not  even  Theresa's  still  cherished  love  for  Otto  could  soothe 
the  an^ry  passions  that  were  now  strengthening  within  her  breast, 
that  filled  her  spirit  with  the  one  hope, — the  one  desire  of  revenge. 

It  was  a  fearful  night ;  and  the  tempest  brought  back  to  the  mind 
of  one  whose  memories  were  so  few  ana  virid,  the  raging  of  the  storm 
on  the  evening  of  her  fatal  birth-day  festival.  Her  thoughts  dwelt, 
for  a  time  with  proud  confidence,  on  the  changelessness  of  Otto's  affec- 
tion ;  and  she  gased  abroad  into  the  night  through  the  small  grated 
aperture  of  the  tower,  and  shuddered  as  she  listen^  to  the  pelting  of 
the  storm.  There  were  travellers  exposed  to  it.  A  distant  light — 
another  and  another  —  gleamed  on  the  desolate  path  to  Budowa. 
Would  they  dare  to  cross  the  mountain  torrents  on  such  a  night  as  this^ 
A  prophetic  instinct  seemed  to  have  entered  her  soul :  her  hour  of  ven- 
geance was  approaching.  She  paced  the  room  with  a  violent  agitation, 
then  sank  on  her  knees  before  the  crucifix  where  her  prayers  were  still 
daily  offered  up,  and  the  mighty  conflict  that  went  on  within  appeared 
to  wrench  her  spirit  asunder.  But  that  conflict  was  not  to  be  decided 
now.  It  was  being  decided  during  the  twelve  years  she  had  cherished 
thoughts  of  vengeance.  A  dark  shade  seemed  to  pass  over  the  glo- 
rious beauty  of  her  faultless  features,  and  once  more  she  arose  haugh- 
tily erect  from  her  vain  supplications. 

At  that  moment  strange  sounds  re-echoed  through  that  vaulted 
chamber,  and  Otto  of  Wartenberg  knelt  at  the  feet  of  his  early,  long- 
lost  love,  and  mingled  vows  of  passionate  devotion  with  his  tale  of 
daring  and  of  triumph.     His  enterprise  had  been  one  of  desperate 

VOL.   XXIII.  o 


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180  THE   HEIRESS   OF   BUDOWA. 

danger;  for  the  only  mode  of  scaling  the  fortress  was  by  a  ladder  of 
ropes.  Each  man  separately^  in  a  silence  on  which  life  depended^  the 
few  brare  soldiers  selected  by  the  county  followed  their  Ic^Btder  to  the 
summit  of  the  lofty  tower.  He  had  been  the  first  to  try  the  daring 
venture^  the  first  to  stand  on  the  battlements  and  secure  the  compara- 
iiyely  safe  ascent  of  those  who  followed.  When  the  last  soldier  had 
gained  the  height,  the  trumpet  sounded  its  notes  of  triumphant  defi- 
ance, and  the  battle-cry  of  Otto  of  Wartenber^  fell  with  omen  of  af- 
fright upon  the  astonished  garrison.  The  resistance  was  bloody  bnt 
ineffectual.  Otto  bore  down  all  opposition ;  the  defenders  of  the  tower 
perished  to  a  man. 

Long  ere  the  morning  dawned  Theresa  was  borne  far  from  the 
gloomy  tower  of  Adelsberg,  and  within  the  lordly  castle  of  Otto  was 
welcomed  by  his  countess-mother  with  the  deference  due  to  her  who 
was  now  the  Baroness  of  Budowa.  Theresa  now  first  learned  that  the 
baron  himself  was  dead ;  it  was  supposed  without  repenting  him  of  his 
vindictire  cruelty.  Slabata  had  succeeded  to  his  power  and  honours. 
He  had  long  before  become  the  husband  of  Maria,  and  had  then 
changed  his  faith  from  Lutheranism  to  Calvinism,  to  soothe  the  preju- 
dices of  the  bitter  old  man,  and  become  better  qualified  for  his  repre- 
sentative. It  had,  therefore,  for  the  last  two  or  three  years,  been  Sla- 
bata and  Maria  alone  who  continued  Theresa's  cruel  imprisonment, — 
the  only  means  indeed  of  securing  to  them  the  inheritance  of  Bndow. 
The  usurping  pair  offered  but  a  slight  opposition  to  the  powerful 
force  led  against  them  under  the  dreaded  banner  of  Otto.  They  saved 
their  lives  by  a  rapid  flight ;  and  in  a  few  days  from  the  period  of 
Theresa's  captivity.  Otto  received  within  her  own  noble  halls  the  well- 
merited  guerdon  of  her  hand.  Bohemia  was  then  in  so  disturbed  a 
condition  that  the  expulsion  of  Slabata,  without  waiting  for  any  of  the 
forms  of  law,  excited  neither  blame  nor  surprise.  Indeed,  the  \vrongs 
of  Theresa  had  been  so  flagrant  and  manifest,  that  the  whole  tide  of 
popular  feeling  was  directed  in  her  fSavour,  and  it  was  with  general  en* 
thusiasm  that  she  was  welcomed  back  to  life,  to  honours,  and  to  hap- 
piness. 

Slabata,  however,  would  not  so  easily  resign  the  possessions  even  he 
deemed  dearly  purchased  by  the  loss  of  his  fsir  fame.  He  appealed 
to  the  Directors,  who  feebly  attempted  to  administer  justice  during  the 
period  intervening  between  the  Bohemian  rejection  of  Ferdinand,  em- 
peror of  Austria,  for  some  years  acknowledged  as  their  king,  and  the 
election  of  the  unfortunate  Frederic,  Palsgrave  of  the  Rhine.  But 
while  the  suit  was  pending  in  the  court  of  the  directors.  Otto  laughed 
to  scorn  the  power  of  the  law,  and,  in  the  name  of  his  wife  Theresa, 
summoned  her  vassals  to  hold  themselves  in  readiness  to  defend  her 
rights,  if  need  be,  by  force  of  arms. 

When,  however,  Frederic  arrived  in  Bohemia,  the  aspect  of  affairs 
was  altered.  The  young  king  and  his  English  wife,  Elizabeth,  were 
received  with  enthusiasm  in  Prague,  and  their  popularity  was  universal 
throughout  the  country.  All  seemed  inclined  to  yield  obedience,  and 
amongst  the  rest  even  Otto  of  Wartenberg  consented  to  refer  the  deci- 
sion of  his  cause  to  the  law  oflicers  appointed  by  the  king.  The  result 
of  the  decision  was  the  first  cause  of  turning  the  tide  of  popular  favour 
(doublv  uncertain  among  the  volatile  Bohemians)  against  their  new- 
made  king  and  his  English  wife.  The  two  parties  of  Lutheran  and 
Calvinist  ran  high  amongst  the  natives  of  the  country  ;  but  the  Lu- 


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THE  HEIRESS   OF   BUDOWA.  181 

tberan  had  long  acquired  and  firmly  held  the  upper  band.  The  bigotry 
of  the  king's  Calrinistic  chapbun  Scnltetua,  haa  already  excited  mur- 
mnrt  amongst  his  subjects,  and  reminded  the  Bohemians  very  impru- 
dently that  the  king,  chosen  as  a  Protestant,  might  still  be  bitterly 
opposed  to  the  form  of  faith  most  general  and  popular  among  them- 
selves. 

The  opinions  of  Slabata  were  Calyinistic,  those  of  Otto,  Lutheran ; 
and  when  the  decision  of  the  court  was  published  restcnring  Slabata's 
iniquitous  usurpations,  and  again  dispossessing  the  injured  Theresa,  it 
was  publicly  asserted  that  the  Lutheran  opinions  of  Otto  had  been  the 
cause  of  the  flagrant  injustice.  Nor  haa  Frederic  contented  himself 
with  decreeing  tne  cession  of  Theresa's  lawful  patrimony  to  Slabata ; 
Otto,  in  addition,  was  amerced  in  a  heary  fine  m  baring  taken  poses- 
8i<m  of  his  wife's  inheritance  by  force  of  arms,  and  condemned  to  im- 
prisonment in  the  tower  of  Prague,--a  sentence  immediately  carried 
into  execution. 

While  these  transactions  were  exciting  universal  discontent  at  Prague, 
Theresa  had  remained  alone  at  Budowa,  little  doubting  the  decision 
of  the  law-courts,  and  utterly  unconscious  of  her  husband's  fate. 
Dreading  the  well-known  spirit  of  the  woman  he  had  injured,  Slabata 
would  not  venture  to  appear  in  person  before  Budowa  to  claim  the  re- 
alituti<m  decreed  by  the  laws.  He,  therefore,  employed  the  Rath  to 
acquaint  Theresa  with  the  successful  termination  of  his  suit,  and  per- 
suade her  to  submit  without  resistance  to  the  king's  authority.  She 
listened  in  mingled  rage  and  astonishment  to  the  first  announcement  of 
a  decision  depriving  her  at  once  of  her  possessions  and  her  revenge ; 
but,  dissembling  her  indignation,  slie  appeared  won  over  by  the  per- 
suasions of  the  justiciary,  and  even  consented  to  admit  Slabata,  pro- 
vided he  came  accompanied  by  legal  officers  alone.  For  this  the  Hath 
pledged  himself,  and  retired  mm  the  castle  to  return  the  next  morn- 
ing with  its  new  owner.  Theresa  then  sought  the  retirement  of  her 
own  apartment,  not  to  abandon  herself  to  the  transports  of  rage  and 
disappointment  that  swelled  her  heart,  but  to  determine  on  the  mea- 
sures to  be  pursued  in  this  desperate  emergency. 

The  sun  soon  set  behind  the  castle  of  Budowa,  but  darkness  brought 
no  cessation  to  the  exertions  of  Theresa,  for  morning's  light  was  to 
witness  the  approach  of  Slabata,  and  his  reinstatement  in  her  own  an- 
cestral halls.  No  slumber  opuld  Theresa  know  on  the  night  preceding 
her  enemy's  triumph,  and  through  every  hour  of  its  lapse,  messengers 
were  hurriedly  departing  to  summon  from  the  various  districts,  under 
her  own  or  her  husband's  sway,  every  soldier  whose  arm  might  prove 
available  in  the  coming  contest. 

Day  dawned,  and  Slabata  appeared  before  the  castle,  the  legal 
officers  who  were  conditioned  for,  alone  accompanying  him ;  the  Rath 
then  claimed  admission  in  the  king's  name.  Theresa  m  person  granted 
it.  With  haughty  and  indignant  glances  she  watched  to  its  conclusion 
the  ceremony  that  ceded  her  rights  to  her  hated  rival — a  cession  made 
with  every  form  that  could  obtain  an  additional  moment  of  delay. 
Slabata  left  to  the  Rath  the  odious  office  of  receiving  the  keys  of  the 
castle  from  the  attendant  officers  of  the  baroness,  as  he  turned  hurriedly 
away  f^m  the  vindictive  gaze  of  the  woman  he  had  injured,  the 
triumph  of  the  hour  seemed  to  belong  to  Theresa  and  not  to 
him.  But  while  she  prepared  for  betraysJ,  she  herself  was  betrayed. 
Indmately  acquainted  with  the  secret  passages  of  the  castle,  Slabata 


o  2 

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182  THE  HEIRESS  OF  BUDOWA. 

had  contrired  the  entrance  of  a  number  of  soldiers  by  an  underground 
passage,  at  the  very  moment  that  he  himself  appeared  in  peaceful 

fuise  before  its  gates.  They  seemed,  however,  destined  for  a 
ifferent  purpose  from  that  he  originally  designed,  and  to  be  needed 
for  his  safety,  not  for  his  triumph.  For  as  the  baroness  led  the  way  to 
the  great  hall  of  the  castle,  where  preparations  for  a  treacherous  wel- 
come were  spread,  he  and  the  Rath  beheld  the  surrounding  country 
darkened  by  the  numerous  forces  of  Theresa,  advancing  under  the  ban- 
ners of  their  respective  leaders ;  and  many  had  already  nearly  reached 
Uie  walls.  Slabata  and  the  Rath  had  approached  from  the  other  side, 
where  the  ancient  forest  of  Budowa  had  entirely  concealed  from  their 
view  the  sight  that  now  burst  so  unexpectedly  upon  them.  Deadly 
pale  was  the  countenance  of  the  false  Slabata,  while  a  flush  of  indig- 
Bant  astonishment  burnt  to  the  very  brow  of  the  Rath.  The  resolu- 
tion  of  the  brave  old  man  was  instantly  taken.  Theresa  made  no  at- 
tempt to  detain  him,  and  he  rapidly  passed  alongthe  drawbridge  of  the 
castle,  apparentlv  leaving  Slabata  to  his  fate.  The  Rath  was  a  public 
-officer  universally  beloved  and  respected,  and  it  was  not  in  vain  he 
trusted  to  his  own  influence,  and  to  the  popularity  of  the  new  sovereign, 
loyalty  had  not  waned  in  the  more  remote  districts  as  it  had  alreMy 
done  in  Praeue.  When  he  announced  the  proclamation  of  the  king, 
and  prepared  to  open  the  royal  commission,  deep  and  respectful  silence 
fell  on  the  armed  multitude  assembling  around  the  castle,  the  leaders 
-gathered  in  a  drde  about  him,  alike  for  attention  and  defence.  The 
terms  of  the  commission  were  express.  They  denounced  the  penalties 
•of  imprisonment  and  confiscation  against  any  who  attempted  to  resist 
the  royal  mandate  for  the  restoration  of  Slabata,  at  the  same  time  ap- 
|)ealing  confidently  to  the  loyalty  of  the  people,  and  calling  upon  them 
to  assist  in  enforcing  the  decision  of  the  law. 

Bohemian  faith  was  wavering  as  the  summer-breese,  and  Bohemian 
memory  of  past  evils  easily  effaced  by  present  fears.  They  further 
heard  with  consternation  that  the  brave  and  gallant  Otto,  beneath 
whose  banner  they  expected  to  be  led  to  certain  victory,  was  shut  up 
in  the  tower  of  Prague,  and  all  hope  of  his  aid  excluded.  Little  was 
4uiown  of  Theresa  but  her  beauty  and  misfortunes;  the  fidcle  crowd 
deemed  not  that  beneath  her  soft  and  fragile  form,  glowed  a  spirit  as 
daring  and  fearless  as  that  of  her  heroic  husband.  And  that  spirit 
•till  sustained  her  as  she  beheld  the  numerous  vassals  to  whom  she  had 
trusted  for  safety  and  triumph,  dispersing  on  all  sides  instead  of  ad- 
vancing towards  the  <»stle.  Some  of  them  slowly,  most  of  them 
lapidly,  turned  to  retrace  the  way  they  came,  thus  leaving  the 
haughty  baroness  to  the  bitter  alternatives  of  submission  or  imprison- 
ment. But  not  even  now  paled  her  proud  cheek  or  sank  her  flashing 
eye ;  with  resolution  firm  as  ever,  she  issued  orders  to  the  garrison  of 
the  castle  to  fidl  upon  the  soldiers  of  Slabata*  And  even  when  the 
hopelessness  of  resistance  smote  on  the  hearts  of  the  bravest,  they 
yielded  to  the  commands  and  entreaties  of  their  beautiful  mistress, 
and  the  desperate  conflict  was  b^un ;  in  the  presence  of  Theresa  her- 
self, the  unequal  struggle  raged  with  mutual  fury. 

The  garrison  of  the  castle  maintained  Uie  contest  until  their  number 
was  more  than  half  diminished ;  then,  forcing  Theresa,  and  her  faithful 
attendant.  Bertha,  who  was  clinging  to  her  side,  from  the  scene  of  car- 
nage, they  effected  their  retreat  through  a  carefully-guarded  passage, 
and  succeeded  in  placing  them  in  safety  in  a  distant  wing  of  the  castle* 


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THE  HEIKESS  OF  BUDOWA;  1S3 

The  shouts  of  the  drunken  merriment  of  Slabata  and  his  followers 
reached  even  the  distant  spot  where  Theresa  had  found  refuse :  thej 
roused  her  ^m  the  torpor  of  rage  and  despair.  Followed  by  the 
trembling  Bertha,  she  hurried  rapidly  slons  passages,  corridors  — 
all  seem^  opened  to  her  steps.  Uninterrupted  they  reached  the  scene 
of  fe8tiTity>---the  magnificent  hall  where  Theresa  had  once  shone  in  the 
pride  of  youthful  beauty*  A  small  gallery  orerlooked  the  hall.  The 
drunken  revellers  were  already  so  stupified  by  their  excesses,  that 
Theresa  stood  there  gazing,  in  dark  revenge,  upon  the  group  below, 
without  being  observ^  by  any.  Her  eye  sought  Slabata  done*  He 
sat  in  the  pli^  he  had  usurped  from  her. 

'*  Bertha,"  she  murmured  in  a  hollow  voice,  ^^  I  have  needed  this 
sight  to  steel  my  heart  for  vengeance." 

Bertha  shuddered,  and  Theresa  hurried  forward.  They  soon  reached 
a  low  door,  nearly  under  the  great  hall,  and  towards  the  centre  of  the 
bnildine.  Here  Theresa  paused  for  a  moment ;  she  clasped  her  hands 
in  anguish,  then,  seizing  a  torch,  she  applied  one  of  the  keys  that  hung 
in  her  girdle  to  the  door,  and  entered.  Bertha  followed,  terrible 
suspicions  curdling  the  blood  in  her  veins,  and  saw  at  a  glance  the  pre- 
parations that  had  occupied  Theresa  during  those  hours  on  the  pre-' 
oeeding  day  when  she  had  forbidden  her  attendance.  Casks  of  powder 
nearly  filled  the  cellar,  combustible  materials  were  heaped  around 
them,  and  one  touch  from  a  lighted  torch  would  bury  in  the  same 
sudden  destruction  the  victor  and  the  vanquished.  As  Theresa  stood 
before  the  fatal  pile,  her  hair  flung  wildly  off  her  noble  brow,  her  eyes 
flashing  with  the  ^re  of  revenge  and  nate.  Bertha  could  no  longer 
doubt  her  deadlv  purpose. 

In  a  few  words,  spoken  calmly  and  firmly,  as  if  success  and  triumph 
still  rested  on  her  path,  she  pointed  out  to  Bertha  a  vaulted  passage, 
so  contrived  as  to  afiPord  an  almost  instant  egress  into  the  woods  sur- 
rounding the  castle. 

"  My  faithful  soldiers  wait  you  there,"  she  said.  ^*  The  wounded 
must  perish  with  their  mistress.  You  will  be  conveved  to  Prague.  It 
is  for  you  alone  to  announce  to  Otto  that  Theresa  cfied  worthv  of  his 
love,  that  she  died  a  death  of  such  vengeance  as  Bohemia  shall  never 
forget." 

The  sounds  that  roused  Bertha  from  a  death-like  insensibility  might 
almost  have  awakened  the  dead.  Far  away  over  rock,  and  hill,  over 
desert,  valley,  and  smiling  plain,  the  fearful  echoes  multiplied  the 
terrible  peals  that  burst  upon  her.  They  reached  the  walls  of  Prague 
itself,  and  fell  with  omen  of  affright  upon  the  helpless  Otto,  as  he  lay 
in  his  prison  tower. 

The  red-hot  splinters  of  the  tremendous  conflagration  were  falling 
around  Bertha  when  she  opened  her  eyes  to  the  terrible  consciousness 
of  Theresa's  fate ;  though  the  care  of  the  soldiers,  to  whom  she  had 
been  entrusted  had  removed  her  apparently  out  of  the  reach  of  imme- 
diate danger.  The  indignant  execrations  bursting  from  the  lips  of  those 
around  proved  their  previous  ignorance  of  the  rate  that  was  involving 
in  one  terrible  destruction  their  mistress  and  their  wounded  comrades. 
But  there  was  no  time  for  reproaches,  no  hope  of  rescue,  and  with 
friendly  roughness  they  dragged  Bertha  away  from  the  scene  of  horror. 
It  was  not  till  they  had  reached  the  summit  of  a  distant  hill  that  they 
paused  in  their  flight,  and,  looking  back,  beheld  the  ancient  towers  of 


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184  THE   HEIRESS  OF   BUDOWA. 

Budowa,  with  the  victor  and  the  yanquish^,  inclosed  together  in  a 
glowing  tomb.  The  discharges  of  powder  still  continued  so  tremendoos 
as  to  shake  the  stout  frames,  and  stun  the  practised  ears  of  the  warlike 
men  who  surrounded  her. 

Theresa's  vengeance  had  been  far-sighted  and  extensive.  It  had  not 
only  whelmed  in  ruin  its  more  immediate  victims,  but  the  fate  of  the 
king  and  queen  of  Bohemia  was  involved  in  the  wreck  wrought  by  her 
hand.  Abhorrence  for  the  deed  of  vengeance  was  all-absorbed  in  the 
indignation  felt  against  those  whose  injustice  had  excited  it,  and  only 
the  beauty,  only  the  wrongs,  only  the  heroism  of  Theresa  were  remem- 
bered. Further,  and  wider  than  the  flame  of  the  conflagration  reached, 
were  inflamed  the  hearts  of  the  fickle  Bohemians.  SSven  those  fol- 
lowers of  Theresa  who  had  been  seduced  from  their  allegiance  to  her 
by  the  persuasions  of  the  Rath,  vented  their  indignant  sorrow  for  her 
fate  upon  those  who  had  influenced  the  desertion  that  caused  it.  One 
universal  murmur  of  discontent  was  heard  throughout  Bohemia,  and 
the  pq>ulace  of  Prague*  worked  upon  by  their  Lutheran  preachers  to 
consider  the  deed  of  h<Hrror  as  the  consequence  of  the  Calvinistic 
bigotry  of  the  king  and  queen,  crowded  to  the  gates  of  the  palace,  and 
caBed  fiercely  for  the  liberation  of  Otto. 

In  late  alarm,  in  late  repentance,  Frederic  not  only  granted  liberty 
to  the  wronffed  Count  of  Wartenburg,  but  assigned  bun  apartments  in 
the  royal  pfdace  until  he  should  have  recovered  sufficient  strength  to 
leave  rra^e.  The  tidings  of  Theresa's  fate  had  readied  him  from 
stranger  lips,  not  from  the  gentle  Bertha.  The  shock  had  overwhelmed 
his  reason ;  and,  when  tidings  of  his  liberation  were  conveyed  to  him,  he 
was  found  in  the  ravings  of  delirium.  This  was  a  new  subject  of  alarm 
for  the  king  and  queen ;  and,  as  the  populace  still,  with  loud  cries,  de- 
manded the  assurance  of  his  freedom,  the  only  means  of  concealing  his 
condition  was  to  remove  him,  with  all  ease  and  caution,  into  their  own 
palace,  where  he  was  placed  under  the  care  of  the  royal  phvsicians. 
Here  Bertha  easily  gained  permission  to  watch  by  the  coucn  of  the 
sufferer,  as  the  favourite  friend,  rather  than  the  attendant,  of  the  late 
baroness.  But,  in  spite  of  all  human  efforts,  the  life  of  Count  Otto  was 
fast  drawing  to  its  close,  and  in  a  flew  days  his  remains  were  consigned 
to  the  darkness  of  the  tomb. 

As  a  tardy  and  unsuccessful  expiation,  Frederic  and  Elizabeth 
erected  a  stately  monument  to  the  memory  of  Otto,  the  last  of  the 
Counts  of  Wartenberg,  and  Theresa,  Baroness  of  Budowa.  In  pompons 
inscriptions  were  recorded  their  titles,  and  the  hononrs  of  both  ancient 
houses ;  the  beauty  and  the  misfortunes  of  Theresa ;  the  martial  fome 
and  the  fidelity  of  Otto.  Thus,  the  justice  denied  in  life  was  accorded 
in  death. 


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185 
DIFFICULTIES  IN  A  TOUR  TO  WIESBADEN. 

BY  THB  AUTHOR  OF  "  FADDIANA/'  JSTO. 

On  a  drissling  August  night»  near  upon  ten  o'clock,  in  the  year 
1845,  we,  with  our  small  carpet-bag,  and  a  very  larffe  and  mis- 
cellaneous company,  occupied  the  interior  of  an  omnibus  bound 
from  the  railway-station  to  the  interior  of  the  fragrant  city  of  Co- 
l<>gne.  There  was  not  a  cab  to  be  had  for  love  or  money,  for  all  the 
world  seemed  on  the  move ;  and,  how  the  passengers  by  that  enor- 
mous train,  growing  longer  and  longer,  fuller  and  fuller,  since  eight 
o'clock  in  the  mommg,  had  contrived  to  squeeae  themselves  into  the 
few  vehicles  at  the  station,  was  a  matter  of  astonishment  to  all. 
Ever  as  a  man's  baggage  was  released  from  the  luggage»heap  and 
the  searchers,  he  seised  it,  and  rushed  into  scmiething.  No  one  en- 
quired where  the  thing  was  going ;  it  was  enough  to  get  in,  and 
trust  to  Providence.  Sixteen  alr^y  in  the  vehicle,  and  fourteen 
more  ladies  waitinff  at  the  door,  many  with  little  boys  in  their  hands, 
and  ahnost  all  with  a  gentleman  superintending  the  packing  of 
trunks  on  the  roof.  Four  ladies  already  on  the  bottom-step ;  one — 
equal  to  four — ^in  the  doorway. 

''  How  many  are  we  licensed  to  carry  ?"  roared  an  Englishman 
from  *'  the  diair."  It  was  received  with  shouts  of  derision.  Licensed  I 
as  if  there  was  any  licence,  or  leave  either,  when  queens  are  abroad ! 
The  idea  of  a  man  bringing  his  Camber  well  notions  into  such  a  place 
as  this !  Why,  most  likely,  we  have  half-a-dozen  priiM^s,  to  say  no- 
thing of  counts  and  barons,  in  the  'bus  already ;  and  others  coming. 
The  fat  lady  b  two-thirds  up,  the  other  four  close  behind  her ;  and 
a  waving  undefined  stream  of  paletots  is  setting  in  towards  the  door- 
way. 

**  You  positively  can't  come  up  here,  ma'am ;  you  really  cannot. 
I  must  protest  against  this.    Conductor !" 

*'  W«l,  where  am  I  to  go  ?     I  must  sit  down  somewhere." 

"  Do,  pray,  ma'am  !•— upon  those  four  at  the  top.  Anything  but 
standing  on  my  foot." 

"I  must  trouble  you  to  remove  your  carpet-bag  off  your  knees, 
sir,  I  can't  ut  upon  the  top  o'  that." 

''  Mais,  mon  Dieu !  madame,  qu'est  ce  que  vous  allez  faire  I  C'est 
impossible !     You  most ! — ^you  can't  !-*you  shan't !     Dieu  I" 

*'  Allow  me,  sir,  to  take  a  joint,  if  you  can't  go  the  whole  animal. 
That 's  it  I  Mind  my  fibula  I  Now,  if  anybody  were  disposed  for 
a  few  steaks  on  the  other  side,  we  should  be  all  right ;  or,  perhaps, 
the  gentleman  next  me  may  have  no  objection  to  join  me  in  the 
round?" 

**  Well !  of  all  the  omnibuses  I  ever  travelled  in,  this  certainly  is 
the  most  hinconvenient !" 

'*  Good  gracious,  sir,  how  you  are  a-shoving  !  One  would  think 
it  was  a  wan !" 

'*  Pardon,  madame,  c'est  mon  nez  que  vous  prenez :  on  ne  peut 
pas  ouvrir  la  fenetre  comme  9a." 

"  What  the  devil  brings  all  the  people  abroad,  I  can't  think,  when 
thev  may  see  the  queen  as  much  as  they  please  at  home  ?" 

it  was  a  wonder. 


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186  DIFFICULTIES   IN   A 

Rumble — ^rumble — ^jolt — bang!  If  the  springs  stand  this^  they 
are  made  of  uncommon  stuff.  On  through  the  twisting  ways  of  the 
works, — on  over  the  **  murderous  stones,"  to  the  **  Oermanischer 
Hof,"— to  the  "  Mainser  Hof/'— to  the  "  Pariscr  Hof/'— to  the 
"Hotel  de  Cologne,"— to  the  " Bellevue,"— to  the"Cour  de  Hol- 
lande."  No  room :  dioke  full.  Not  a  bed  for  love  or  money.  Beds  ! 
why  princes  are  sleeping  on  the  billiard-tables>  and  barons  sitting  up 
smoking,  to  pass  the  night 

"  Mais  vous  avez  des  chaises,  done — des  fauteuils  ?" 

**  Non,  monsieur,  pas  un.    Des  chaises,  oui." 

Here  was  a  pretty  case.  Not  even  an  elbow-chair  to  be  had,  and 
all  the  barons  sitting  up  smoking. 

**  Well,  sir,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

''  Why  I  am  rather  in  doubt  whether  to  go  and  sit  up  with  the 
barons,  or  be  content  with  the  feather-bed  1  have  here.  Better,  in- 
deed, if  we  had  no  bones  in  it" 

<'  But,"  suggested  in  a  whisper  the  little  man  who  had  helped  me 
off  with  the  round, ''  though  the  barons  are  sitting  up,  depend  upon 
it  the  lordU  are  not" 

What  a  thing  is  wit.  Of  course  they  are  not  Why,  you  jolter- 
head !  to  think  of  sitting  under  this  high  pressure,  and  lul  for  want 
of  a  happy  thought 

"  I  '11  go  to  the  barons,  decidedly.  May  I  trouble  you,  ma'am,  for 
some  exertion  to  relieve  me.  A  large  share  in  this  concern  to  be 
disposed  of, — ^that  's  it ! — a  trifling  shifl  of  the  H  bone.  Get  a  pur- 
chase on  the  Frenchman.  Pass  the  word  for  a  good  heave  of  all  con- 
cerned. Well  done.  Come  along,  my  lord,  and  bring  your  carpet- 
bag with  you." 

'<  This,  my  lord,  I  think,  was  the  hotel  your  lordship  wished  to 
descend  at  ?     You  speak  English  ?" 

"  A  leetle." 

'^  We  require  two  rooms.  His  lordship  and  I  like  them  clean. 
Are  the  servants  come?  N'importe.  Supper  immediately,  and  a 
1[>ottle  of  Rudesheimer :  but,  first  to  the  rooms,  and  let  me  advise 
your  lordship  to  keep  the  key  in  your  own  pocket  Of  course  you 
have  beds  for  my  lord  and  me?" 

**  Donnez  vous  la  peine  d'entrer,  milord.  Be  so  oblige  to  come. 
Nous  verrons,"  (here  an  earnest  conversation).  *'  Par  ici,  milord. 
Dies  rooms  you  can  have, — ^too  small  ?" 

''They  are  rather  small;  but,  I  suppose  we  must  have  them. 
The  beds  clean?' 

"  Beds  !    Oh,  clean — clean,  yais." 

*'  But,  my  good  sir,  when  they  see  the  passports  ?" 

'*  Eat  a  goixl  supper,  and  thev  are  not  likely  to  turn  us  out  Lock 
yourself  in  when  you  go  to  bed ;  and,  besides,  pack  up  all  the 
clothes  you  take  on,  and  lose  the  key  of  the  bag.  Little  decency  as 
there  is  in  this  country,  they  will  hardly  turn  you  out  in  that  state, 
or  even  insist  upon  your  sitting  up  with  the  barons.  And,  in  the 
event  of  an  onslaught,  you  have  the  spittoon  and  other  missiles.  The 
passports  are  at  present  packed  up,  and  must  be  given  out  the  last 
thing.  Then,  being  as  much  as  may  be  like  Adam  in  his  bower,  we 
may  lie  down  without  any  fear  of  an  '  event  perverse.' " 

At  supper  we  had  a  little  trait  of  the  national  manners.  A  man 
who  hacf  oeen  silently  sotting  and  smoking  himself  into  drunkenness. 


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TOUB  TO   WIESBADEN.  187 

suddenly  rose  up^  and  began  to  abuse  the  landlord^  making  out  his 
bills  at  a  side-table.  Mine  host  put  him  off  with  a  wave  of  his  hand ; 
bat  it  would  not  do.  He  became  more  and  more  violent,— tore  his 
throat  with  ach-ing  and  augh-inff .  Still  all  were  silent ;  though  the 
waiters  gently  sidled  towards  him.  A  contemptuous  '*  pfui !"  from 
the  host  brought  him  to  the  desired  point,— he  shook  his  two  fists  in 
the  landlord's  face. 

Personal  violence,  or  even  a  demonstration  of  it,  is  not  allowed  in 
Clermany ;  so  they  had  what  they  wanted — ^the  law  on  their  side. 
In  a  moment  the  three  waiters  had  him,  one  on  each  side,  by  the 
arms,  and  the  other  judiciously  behind  by  the  neck  and  the  waist- 
band. Johann,  the  boots,  was  at  the  door  with  a  candle.  He  was 
walked  in  the  most  orderly  way  to  the  front-door,  quoited  into  the 
street,  the  door  barred  and  locked  behind  him,  and  then  all  four 
burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  quietly  joined  in  by  the  landlord  at  his 
desk. 

**  Now,"  said  the  nobleman's  companion,  as  he  hurried  breakfast- 
less  next  morning  to  the  steamer, — for  there  was  no  breakfast  for  a 
commoner,  though  a  bed  for  a  lord, — *'  never  again  will  I  travel  the 
way  of  kings  and  queens.  Carefully  will  I  avoid  the  tails  of  those 
royal  comets.  Before  I  adventure  upon  a  journey  another  time,  let 
me  not  forget  to  enquire  what  potentates  are  abroad.  It  was  a  fight 
and  a  wrangle  all  along  the  road — at  Odtend  ;  and  at  Ghent,  where  I 
slept  amongst  beetles  in  a  maison  particuUere,  and  when  the  shut- 
ters  were  opened  in  the  morning,  it  looked  as  if  dozens  of  little 
devils  were  escaping  from  the  light  of  day.  No— no.  I  must  per- 
force follow  in  tneir  wake  to  Coblentz,  and  then  I  give  them  up, — I 
wash  my  hands  of  them,  by  way  of  Schwalbach, — and  there  wait  till 
the  i^yftl  crowd  goes  by. 

At  Bonn,  at  Kbnigswinter,  Andemach,  and  at  every  town  and  vil« 
lage  on  the  river's  banks  was  a  dense  and  wandering  crowd — wan- 
dering,  for  the  hotels  could  not  hold  them.  Not  agasthaus,  or  a  hqf, 
or  a  bad-kaus,  nay,  not  a  window,  that  was  not  crammed  with  peo- 
ple ;  and  at  the  piers  sat  disconsolate  on  their  bags,  the  rejected  and 
roovers-on.  There  were  no  touters,  for  their  occupation  was  gone ; 
and  the  heavy  satisfied  landlords  looked  lazily  at  the  thron^red  decks, 
as  much  as  to  say,  *' Don't  you  desire  that  you  may  obtain  it?  but 
you  can't." 

From  Coblentz  we  hurry  on  to  £ms,  and  take  the  road  to  Schwal- 
bach. 

And  now.  Master  Murray,  for  the  best  hotel.  There  is  the  Alice 
Saal — '  rooms  for  dancing  and  gaming — ^largest  and  best  situated,  but 
with  scanty  fare,  dirt,  dearness,  and  want  of  comfort.  This  is  for 
the  gay  and  the  gamblers,  who  don't  mind  trifles,  but  won't  do  for 
me.  Then  the  Kaisar  Saal,  by  many  considered  the  best,  cerUinly 
the  most  abundant,  and  a  civil  landlord — this  will  draw  the  heavy 
feeders.  I  smell  a  dinner  of  two  hours  there,  and  will  none  of  it. 
Then  the  Hotel  au  Due  de  Nassau,  clean  and  good  accommodation. 
N.B.  Scrutinize  the  bills  at  this  house !' 

A  vile  insinuation  this !  Why  recommend  him  at  all  if  vou  think 
him  a  rogue  ?  As  well  say  allow  me  the  pleasure  of  introclucing  my 
friend  So-and-So,  but  take  care  of  your  pockets.  You  have  gibbet- 
ed poor  Nassau  with  your  inuendo ;  for  who  but  the  silliest  of  birds 
would  By  into  a  net  so  plainly  spread?      But  we  shall  have  no 


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18S  DIPPICULTIES   IN   A 

crowd  there,  and  those  that  do  go  will  be  of  the  right  sort.  I  hate 
fellows  that  acrutinize  their  biUs.  We  are  on  a  lark — hang  the 
expense — and  go  there  I  will  for  one. 

After  three  days  at  Schwalbacfa  we  are  braced  up  with  our  iron 
waters  to  the  feat  of  moving  on.  Let  me  see !  They  were  all  at 
Mayence  the  day  before  yesterday;  the  next  day  they  would  be 
going ;  to-day  will  be  the  slopping  and  dusting  after  them ;  to-mor- 
row evening  we  may  venture,  1  think. 

Mine  host's  best  horses  are  ready  to  bring  the  light  caliche  to  the 
door.  By  the^  time  this  pure  Steinberger  has  yielded  its  last  glaae 
we  shall  be  rcAdy  to  bid  adieu  to  the  Lmig  Swallows'  Brook — to  the 
pretty  quiet  scenery — ^to  the  bracing  walks  of  the  hills — to  the  most 
attractive  of  the  Nassau  Brunnen-— to  exdianse  all  this  for  tiresome 
Wiesbaden,  nasty  Mayence,  and  Frankfort,  whither  we  are  bound. 

But  here  is  an  arrival. 

Covered  with  dust,  loaded  with  luggage,  and  servants  that  peep 
out  amongst  imperials  and  hat-boxes,  a  low  German  travelling- 
carriage  stops  at  the  door ;  somebody  works  madly  at  Uie  bell,  aiul 
out  come  landlord,  waiters,  boots  and  all,  to  welcome,  and  help  to 
alight,  a  fat  heavy  gentleman,  twisted  round  with  a  green  cloak,  and 
with  a  gold-banded  forage  cap  of  the  same  colour,  perched  on  the 
back  of  his  head. 

This  must  be  some  great  man  by  the  way  they  work  their  ver* 
tebrse.  I  really  did  not  think  there  had  been  such  bows  in  the 
house ;  the  very  boots  has  tossed  off  a  succession  of  salaams  that 
would  have  made  a  man's  fortune  in  any  other  country.  Every- 
thing must  be  at  his  service  of  course.  We  are  the  vilest  of  dogs- 
would  your  highness  like  some  of  our  heads? — our  limbs  are  at 
your  noble  service — confer  the  favour  of  a  sacrifice,  or  a  trifle  of  tor- 
ture— do,  please  your  excellency  I  I  wonder  what  he  is ;  a  hersog, 
or  an  erzhersog,  or  a  prinz,  or  a  graf,  or  what ! 

He  was  a  herzog,  going  to  meet  the  Queen  of  Ensland  ;  stopped 
for  the  slightest  possible  refreshment— a  glass  of  Khenish  and  a 
biscuit — and  going  on  at  once. 

<<Hi8  name?  Stop,  enough,  the  first  foot  or  two  is  sufiident, 
keep  the  rest  till  I  come  again." 

^  Mais,  monsieur — mais,  monsieur.  On  est  si  f  &che— 'il  n'y  a  pas 
de  chevaux ! " 

"Well,  it  is  a  pity.    What,  no  more  horses  in  the  place?" 

"Pas  un,  monsieur.  His  excellency  requires  four  for  his  own 
carriage,  and  two  for  the  other  just  arrived." 

"  But  there  are  plenty  of  donkeys.  Why  not  give  him  thirty  or 
forty  of  them  ?  they  are  rather  fast  here,  and  will  have  him  at 
Wiesbaden  in  no  time.  Now,  shall  I  do  a  civil  thing  ?  Let  me 
consider.  I  am  not  much  in  the  habit  of  travelling  with  herzogs, 
certainly ;  but  still,  rather  than  he  should  be  too  late,  if  you  thought 
he  could  get  his  name  into  the  caliche,  I  should  not  much  mind 
giving  him  a  lift  as  far  as  Wiesbaden.  You  don't  think  he'd  eat  me 
by  the  way  ?  " 

"Mais  c'est  pour  vous,  monsieur.  Pas  de  chevaux  pour  vous. 
Le  voila  qui  va." 

"  No  horses  for  me !  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  this  infernal 
herzog  has  taken  my  horses  ?  " 

"  Le  voila,  qui  va,  monsieur,  et  sa  petite  voiture  aussi." 


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TOUR  TO  WIESBADEN.  189 

'^  A  pesttlence  upon  all  bersoga !— mpon  til  landlcnrds  who  fitvour 
herxogsl — upon  all  countries  uiat  produce  and  foater  henogs! 
Bring  me  a  bottle  of  light  and  soothing  fluid  that  I  may  drink  con« 
fnaion  to  herzogs — and  you^  I  fill  you  a  bumper  to  drink  that  toast 
with  three  groans  for  hersogs  generally,  and  one  groan  more  for 
Uiis  one.  Groan  as  I  do ;  give  it  him  hearty ;  send  it  after  him  as 
he  goes  up  the  hill.  And  now  go  immediaitely  and  order  twcnty- 
foor  donkeys  into  the  ca^^cAe-^uick,  before  the  people  come  out 
for  their  evening  rides.  Three  postilions  will  do ;  and  a  guiUetume 
to  each  extra  if  we  beat  the  hersog." 

Of  what  avail  is  it  to  abuse  the  laiidlord*-«to  call  him  up  and  t^ 
him  of  his  truckling  treadiery«^to  anathematise  him  as  a  hersog« 
hunting  rascal— to  threaten  to  report  him  to  his  grand  duke— to 
write  to  Albemarle  Street— to  scrutinise  his  bill  ? 

But  stay,  there  is  some  commotion  in  the  street.  Perhaps  another 
herzog ;  or  more  probably  they  are  putting-to  the  donkeys.  Up  the 
t<»wn  fsXkM  are  running;  nearer  us  they  walk  fast;  hereabouts  the^ 
look  earnestly,  and  wonder  what  it  is.  People  are  such  asses ;  as  if 
there  was  anything  to  gape  and  wonder  at  in  a  man  travelling  with 
twelve  pair  of  donkeys  in  a  caliche. 

Presently  a  man  comes  down  the  street  tearBig^»wild^-4iis  hair 
on  end. 

''His  excellency  is  upset— ecras^ ! — abim^ !-^presque  mort!— -a 
whed  came  off." 

^  Give  me  my  hat— cork  the  wine — ^let  me  see  the  man  that  can 
live  with  me  up  the  street  1 " 

At  a  small  angle  of  the  road  we  oome  upon  a  procession— melan* 
choly,  faint,  and  slow.  In  the  front,  held  up  by  a  dosen  arms,  with 
painful  limp,  contorted  face  of  greenish  hue,  hands  falling  powerless, 
and  a  whimpering  whine,  comes  the  fallen  hersog^-the  dishevelled 
and  most  pitiable  herzog — Uie  horse-taking  herzog — at  his  sides,  at  his 
back,  and  slJU  pouring  round  him,  a  bewailing  crowd,  every  hand 
held  out,  every  finger  twiddling-<i-what  can  we  do  for  the  poor 
herzog  ?^-every  mouth  full  of  achs  and  ochs  1 

I  yield  to  no  man  in  proper  sympadiy — I  say  it.  If  anything  I 
am  too  soft.  And  for  gutturals,  or  any  stomach*sounds  to  snow 
it,  I  am  your  man.  Striking  in  on  one  of  the  flanks,  I  held  out  both 
hands,  twiddled  all  the  fingers,  and  save  the  thumlM  in. 

*'  Ogh — agl^— igh — uffhT  who  took  the  horses  I  eigh — ugh  1  pretty 
felonious  herzog,  indeed— 4igh— ogh  !  A  providential  stop  tnief — 
ngb-^igh !  Better  stc^  at  lu>me  than  turn  highway-robber-— ugh — 
eigh  I  Gheatins  never  prospers— ogh — ^igh !  Herzog  is  as  ha>aog 
does— ogh— ugh !  Keep  your  fingers  from  pickinf^  and  stealings* 
agh— for  shame !  Train  up  your  young  hM'zogs  m  the  way  they 
should  go,  and  when  ^ley  are  grown  op  thev  won't  put  their  feet  in 
it*— ugh^'-ogh  I  and  ^  spndn^  ai^es— ogh-**og^  I 

Dr«  Fenner  prescribes  quiet,  patieoce,  and  fementadons  for  a  day 
at  two.  Cunmng  Dr.  Fenner.  Perhaps  a  little  bone  out  of  place  !— 
very  cunning  Dr.  Fenner ! 

«  *  «  *  ♦ 

And  now  we  are  at  Wiesbaden  in  spite  of  herzogs.  Mlesbaden, 
at  which  the  only  pleasant  time  is  early  morning ;  all  is  so  fresh  and 
so  sweet,  and  amongst  those  pleasant  gardens  it  is  soothing  to  walk 
about  full  of  hot  water,  you  almost  fancy  yourself  a  "  biler/'  strolling 
at  large,  unattached  to  any  train. 


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190  TOUR  TO  WIESBADEN. 

I  am  provoked  with  those  who^  engaged  in  politics  or  argument, 
let  their  water  cool.  For  the  broth  dies.  Your  animalcules — like 
manj  people  here  above — ^live  only  in  hot  water.  I  stand  b^  her  of 
the  blue  necklace  and  sip,  and  relish,  and  wince,  and  get  it  down 
alive.  There  is  as  much  difference  between  your  dead  broth  and 
your  living,  as  between  the  vapid  oyster  that  travels  open  from  the 
fishmonger's,  and  him  whom  you  tickle  to  death  with  your  teeth. 

It  is  Sunday  morning.  At  8h.  30m.  we  have  been  drenched, 
bathed,  and  breakfasted,  and  are  leaning  from  the  window  of  the 
Englischer  Hof,  when  out  there  comes  a  female  with  a  wretched 
tumbled  old  blue  and  white  muslin  dress  under  her  arm  that  she  is 
quite  ashamed  of,  glances  right  and  left  before  she  faces  the  street, 
and  seeing  nobody  particular  to  fear,  bolts  forward  past  the  window. 

One  naturally  speculates  upon  what  is  going  on;  particularly 
when  provided  with  a  note-book,  and  having  nothing  else  to  do  in  a 
foreign  country.  It  is  the  female  who  speaks  English.  Where  can 
she  be  going  with  the  dress  ?  To  wash  ?  People  don't  send  their 
dresses  to  the  wash  on  a  Sunday.  To  sell  ?  Why,  who  would  give 
anything  for  such  a  wretched  old  thing  as  that  ?  It  could  tell  a 
curious  tale,  no  doubt,  that  rumpled  and  huddled-up  old  dress.  It 
could  tell  of  the  touzling  of  diligences,  and  of  carriages  without  el- 
bows; of  gasthauses,  and  hqfs,  and  bad'hauMes,  without  end;  of 
dampfschiffi,  and  dampfibools,  and  schnellposis,  and  eiinfagens,  and 
omnwus'fahrts.  But,  to  judge  from  appearances,  it  is  now  on  its 
final  journey ;  doubtless,  to  some  old  clothes-shop,  or,  likely  enough, 
the  ragman.  Still,  they  might  have  had  the  decency  to  send  it  out 
af\er  dark ;  at  any  rate,  not  on  a  Sunday  morning. 

*'  Hillo  1  are  you  going  to  give  away  the  dress  ?" 

"  Yais." 

"  Or,  to  get  it  washed  ?" 

"Yais." 

"  You  are  quite  sure  it  is  not  this  way  ?"  pointing  to  the  tube  that 
conveys  the  water  from  the  roof. 

«  Yais." 

''  Stupid  creature ;  delicate  allusions  are  lost  upon  her ;  but,  per- 
haps  a  more  powerful  coarseness  may  tell  before  she  reaches  the 
comer.  (That  I  should  holloa  such  a  word  on  a  Sunday  morning  in 
a  fashionable  watering-place.)    Spout  ?" 

"Yais." 

"  Bless  me !  what  a  hopeless  case  is  this.  To  think  of  any  fair 
countrywoman  being  reduced  to  such  a  strait.  And  how  much,  in 
her  most  extravagant  imagination,  does  she  think  to  realise  ?  Would 
the  fondest  relative  entertain  a  proposal  to  do  a  couple  of  florins  upon 
it?  Would  he  not,  indeed,  rather  hesitate  at  one?  When  one 
comes  to  think  of  the  wear  and  tear  a  rather  dark  thing  like  that 
must  have  had  before  it  could  be  reduced  to  this  state  of  limp  and 
faded  fallenness,  it  is  really  painful  to  imagine  the  results.  I  sin- 
cerely hope  it  may  not  be  her  last  chance ;  for,  what  abrasions  and 
thin  places  may  not  a  professional  searcher  bring  to  light  ?  Besides, 
the  transaction  is  slightly  damaging  the  national  character.  Really," 
thought  I,  working  myself  up  into  some  measure  of  enthusiasm,  "  I 
had  rather,  if  it  could  have  been  any  way  managed,  have  come  for- 
ward in  an  avuncular  character  myself,  and  done  what  I  could  in 
such  distressing  circumstances.     I  know  what  it  is  to  be  high  and 


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WHAT  CAN   SORROW   DO  ?  191 

dry  on  a  foreign  ghore.  Perhaps  her  husband  has  run  awav  and  lefl 
her ;  or  she  has  lost  her  circulars^  or  specukted  too  fon<i]y  on  the 
red,  or  broke  down  in  her  martingale." 

Moralizing  thus  upon  the  bit  of  muslin,  I  was  leaning  at  lOh.  15m. 
against  the  hotel  door-post,  when  something  blue  loomed  up  in  the  • 
distance — vast — ^inflated — enormous  !  What  could  it  be  ?  The  Nas- 
sau balloon  just  arrived,  perhaps,  and  Mr.  Qreen  sailing  easily  up 
the  town,  to  drop  his  grappling  in  the  little  square  here  before  the 
h6tel. 

"  Why,  really— it  can't  be  } — it  is ! — the  same  dress,  held  out  upon 
the  same  red  arm, — the  other  at  a  right-angle  to  balance  it ;  and, 
what  with  the  thick  barrel- figure  of  the  girl,  the  two  red  arms,  and 
the  dress,  the  street  was  hardly  wide  enough.  Clear  the  way,  there ! 
The  red  fingers  scraped  the  right-hand  corner,  while  the  tenth 
flounce  barely  cleared  the  barber's  window  opposite.  Alake  way ; 
— a  good  sweep  of  the  comer,  to  clear  the  trees,— that's  it !  The 
gentleman  at  the  window  thinks  you  are  going  to  take  him  by  the 
nose, — never  mind.  It  is  a  triumph  indeed !  This  is  what  we  call 
'  getting-up '  in  Nassau.  Look  before  you,  you  silly  girl !  not  up  at 
the  first-fioor  windows.  We  are  all  right  here,  ma'am  ;  do,  please, 
for  one  moment  to  look  down.  Stop !  let  me  open  the  double-door. 
One  wheel  more ;  and  mind  the  spiked  chains.  Now  then — muslin 
first  r 

There  was  a  rustle — a  faint  cry — a  "  Tankee,  tankee,** — and  the 
precious  argosie,  with  royals,  studding-sails,  flying.kites,and  flounces, 
sailed  gloriously  into  port. 

I  merely  mention  this  circumstance  with  a  view  to  inform  my  fair 
countrywomen,  travelling,  it  may  be,  with  only  one  dress,  that  at 
Wiesbaden,  while  you  are  taking  your  bath,  and  doing  your  hair, 
and  just  seeing  how  you  look  in  the  glass,  that  dress — ^however 
rumpled  it  may  be,— however  limp,  starchless,  draggle-tailed,  and 
down-fallen  at  8h.  dOm.,  can  be  made  gloriously  fit  for  church  at 
lOh.  15m. 


WHAT  CAN  SORROW  DO  ? 


What  can  sorrow  dol  it  changeth  shining  hair  to  grey  ; 
Paleth  the  cheek — an  emblem  of  mortality's  decay ; 
Changeth  the  dear  and  truthful  glance  to  dim  unearthly  light, 
Whenoe  gathering  shadows  round  the  heart  shed  dark  and  endless  night. 

What  can  sorrow  do  ?  it  weaveth  memories,  and  the  mind 
Prostrate  in  ruins  layeth  to  its  in6uenoe  resigned  ; 
AfTection^s  healthful  current,  the  sweetest  and  the  best, 
Lost  amid  6oods  of  bitterness — the  waters  of  unrest. 

What  can  sorrow  do  ?  it  vaunteth  reason^s  boasted  sway  ; 
Philosophy's  rain-glorious  dreams,  sets  forth  in  cold  array. 
And  when  the  combat's  o'er  and  gained,  'tis  found  the  foe  hath  reft 
The  heart  of  hope  and  innocence,  and  pride  hath  only  left ! 

What  can  sorrow  do  ?  it  bringeth  the  sinner  home  to  God  ; 
The  stubborn  will  it  bendeth,  beneath  His  chastening  rod  : 
As  gold  by  fire  is  purified,  from  out  that  furnace  dread, 
The  broken  heart,  by  mercy  cleansed,  is  heavenward  gently  led. 

C.  A.  M.  W. 


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192 

CAPTAIN  SPIKE; 

OR,   THE    ISLETS    OF  THE    GULF. 

BY   THE   AUTHOR  OF   "THE   PILOT,"  "BED    ROVER,"    ETC. 

'<  Man  hath  a  weary  pilgrimage. 

As  through  the  world  he  wends  ; 
On  every  stage,  from  youth  to  age, 

Still  discontent  attends ; 
With  heaviness  he  oasts  his  eye 

Upon  the  road  before. 
And  still  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more.** 

SOUTHET. 


CRAPTBR   XVI. 

It  has  now  become  necessary  to  advance  the  time  three  entire  days, 
and  to  change  the  scene  to  Key  West.  As  this  latter  place  may  not  be 
known  to  the  world  at  large,  it  may  be  well  to  explain  that  it  is  a  small 
sea^port,  situate  on  one  of  the  largest  of  the  many  low  islands  that  dot 
the  Florida  Reef,  that  has  risen  into  notice,  or  indeed  into  existence  as  a 
town,  since  the  acquisition  of  the  Floridas  by  the  American  Republic. 
For  many  years  it  was  the  resort  of  few  besides  wreckers,  and  those  who 
live  by  the  business  dependent  on  the  rescuing  and  repairing  of  stranded 
vessels,  not  forgetting  the  salvages.  When  it  is  remembered-  that  the 
greater  portion  of  the  vessels  that  enter  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  stand  close 
along  this  reef  before  the  Trades,  for  a  distance  varying  from  one  to  two 
hundred  miles,  and  that  nearly  everything  which  quits  it  is  obliged  to  beat 
down  its  rocky  coast  in  the  Gulf  stream,  for  the  same  distance,  one  b  not 
to  be  surprised  that  the  wrecks  which  so  constantly  occur,  can  supply  the 
wants  of  a  considerable  population.  To  live  at  Key  West  is  the  next 
thing  to  being  at  sea.  The  place  has  sea-air,  no  other  water  than  such 
as  is  preserved  in  cisterns,  and  no  soil ;  or  so  little  of  the  last  as  to  ren- 
der even  a  head  of  lettuce  a  rarity.  Turtle  is  abundant,  and  the  business 
of  <<  turtling "  forms  an  occupation  additional  to  that  of  wrecking.  As 
might  be  expected  in  such  circumstances,  a  potato  is  a  far  more  precious 
thing  than  a  turtle's  egg ;  and  a  sack  of  the  tubers  would  probably  be 
deemed  a  8u£Bcient  remuneration  for  enough  of  the  materials  of  callipash 
and  callipee  to  feed  all  the  aldermen  extant* 

Of  late  years  the  government  of  the  United  States  has  turned  its  at- 
tention to  the  capabilities  of  the  Florida  Reef  as  an  advanced  naval 
station ;  a  sort  of  Downs,  or  St.  Helen's  Roads,  for  the  West  India  seas. 
As  yet,  little  has  been  done  beyond  making  the  preliminary  surveys ; 
but  the  day  is  probably  not  very  far  distant,  when  fleets  will  lie  at 
anchor  among  the  islets  described  in  our  earlier  chapters,  or  garnish  the 
fine  waters  of  Key  West  For  a  long  time  it  was  thought  that  even 
frigates  would  have  a  difficulty  in  entering  and  quitting  the  port  of  the 
latter,  but  it  is  said  that  recent  explorations  have  discovered  channels 
capable  of  admitting  anything  that  floats.  Still,  Key  West  is  a  town 
yet  in  its  chrysalis  state ;  possessing  the  promise,  rather  than  the  fruition 
of  the  prosperous  days  which  are  in  reserve.  It  may  be  well  to  add  that 
it  lies  a  very  little  north  of  the  twenty-fourth  degree  of  latitude,  and  in 
a  longitude  quite  five  degrees  west  from  Washington.     Until  the  recent 


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CAPTAIN   SPIKE.  198 

cooqaeste  in  Mexico  it  wai  the  most  sontbem  potsession  of  the  Ameri- 
can goyernment^  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  continent ;  Cape  St  Lucas, 
at  the  extremity  of  Lower  California,  however,  heing  two  degprees  far- 
ther sooth* 

It  will  give  the  foreign  reader  a  more  accurate  notion  of  the  character 
of  Key  West,  if  we  mention  a  fact  of  quite  recent  occurrence.  A  very 
few  weeks  after  the  closing  scenes  of  this  tale,  the  town  in  question  was 
in  a  great  measure  washed  away.  A  hurricane  brought  in  the  sea  upon 
all  these  blands  and  reefs,  water  running  in  swift  currents  over  places 
that  within  the  memory  of  man  were  never  before  submerged.  The 
lower  part  of  Key  West  was  converted  into  a  raging  sea,  and  everything 
in  that  quarter  of  the  place  disappeared.  The  foundation  being  of 
rock,  however,  when  the  ocean  retinsd,  the  island  came  into  view  again, 
and  industry  and  enterprise  set  to  work  to  repair  the  injuries. 

The  government  haa  establbhed  a  small  nospital  for  seamen  at  Key 
West  Into  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  building  thus  appropriated  our  narra- 
tive must  now  conduct  the  reader.  It  contained  but  a  single  patient,  and 
that  was  Spike.  He  was  on  his  narrow  bed,  which  was  to  be  but  the  pre- 
cursor of  a  still  narrower  tenement,  the  grave.  In  the  room  with  the 
dying  man  were  two  females,  in  one  of  whom  our  readers  will  at  once 
recognise  the  person  of  Rose  Budd,  dressed  in  deep  mourning  for  her 
aunt  At  first  sight,  it  is  probable  that  a  casual  spectator  would  mis« 
take  the  second  female  for  one  of  the  ordinary  nurses  of  the  place.  Her 
attire  was  well  enough,  though  worn  awkwardly,  and  as  if  its  owner 
were  not  exactly  at  her  ease  in  it  She  had  the  air  of  one  in  her  best 
attire,  who  was  unaccustomed  to  be  dressed  above  the  most  common  mode. 
What  added  to  the  singularity  of  her  appearance,  was  the  fact  that,  while 
she  wore  no  cap,  her  hair  had  been  cut  into  short,  gray  bristles,  instead 
of  being  long  and  turned  up,  as  is  usual  with  females.  To  give  a  sort  of 
climax  to  this  uncouth  appearance,  this  strange-looking  creature  chewed 
tobacco  I 

The  woman  in  question,  equivocal  as  might  be  her  exterior,  was  em- 
ployed in  one  of  the  commonest  avocations  of  her  sex ;  that  of  sewing. 
She  held  in  her  hand  a  coarse  garment,  one  of  Spike's  in  fuct,  which  she 
seemed  to  be  intently  busy  in  mending.  Although  the  work  was  of  a 
quality  that  invited  the  use  of  the  palm  and  sail-needle,  rather  than  that 
of  the  thimble  and  the  smaller  implements  known  to  seamstresses,  the 
woman  appeared  awkward  at  her  business,  as  if  her  coarse-looking  and 
dark  hands  refused  to  lend  themselves  to  an  occupation  so  feminine. 
Nevertheless,  there  were  touches  of  a  purely  womanly  character  about 
this  extraordinary  person,  and  touches  that  particularly  attracted  the  at- 
tention, and  awakened  the  sympathy  of  the  gentle  Rose,  her  companion. 
Tears  occasionally  struggled  out  from  beneath  her  eyelids,  crossed  her 
dark  sunburnt  cheek,  and  fell  on  the  coarse  canvass  garment  that  lay 
in  her  lap.  It  was  after  one  of  these  sudden  and  strong  ei^bitions  of 
feeling,  that  Rose  approached  her,  laid  her  little  fair  hand  in  a  friendly 
way,  though  unheeded,  on  the  other's  shoulder,  and  spoke  to  her  in  her 
kindest  and  softest  tones.  "I  do  really  think  he  is  reviving.  Jack," 
said  Rose,  <*and  that  you  may  yet  hope  to  have  an  intelligent  conversa- 
tion with  him." 

**  They  all  agree  he  muit  die,"  answered  Jack  Tier,  for  it  was  ^  ap- 
pearing in  the  garb  of  his  proper  sex,  after  a  disguise  that  had  now 
lasted  fully  twenty  years, — "  and  he  will  never  know  who  I  am,  and  that 


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194  CAPTAIN  spike; 

I  forgrive  hhn.  He  must  think  of  me  in  another  world,  though  he  is  not 
able  to  do  it  in  this ;  but  it  would  be  a  great  relief  to  his  soul  to  know 
that  I  forgive  him.*' 

**  To  be  sure,  a  man  must  like  to  take  a  kind  leave  of  his  own  wife 
before  he  closes  bis  eyes  for  ever,  and  I  dare  say  that  it  would  be  a  great 
relief  for  you  to  tell  him  that  you  have  forgotten  his  desertion  of  you, 
and  all  the  hardships  it  has  brought  upon  you,  in  searching  for  him,  and 
in  earning  your  own  livelihood  as  a  common  sailor/' 

**  I  shall  not  tell  him  I  *ye  forgotten  it,  Miss  Rose ;  that  would  be  un- 
true, and  there  shall  be  no  more  deception  between  us ;  but  I  shall 
tell  him  that  1  forgive  him,  as  I  hope  God  will  one  day  forgive  all  mg  sins." 

**  It  is  certainly  not  a  light  offence  to  desert  a  wife  in  a  foreign  land, 
and  then  to  seek  to  deceive  another  woman,"  quietly  observed  Rose. 

«  He 's  a  willain  !"  muttered  the  wife,—"  but— but— " 

"  You  forgive  him,  Jack — yes,  I  'm  sure  you  do.  You  are  too  good  a 
Christian  to  refuse  to  forgive  him." 

''  I  'm  a  woman  a'ter  all.  Miss  Rose,  and  that  I  believe  is  the  truth  of 
it.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  do  as  you  say,  for  the  reason  you  mention ; 
but  I  'm  his  wife,  and  once  he  loved  me,  though  that  has  long  been  over. 
When  I  first  knew  Stephen,  I  'd  the  sort  of  feelin's  you  speak  of,  and 
was  a  very  different  creatur'  from  what  you  see  me  to-day.  Change 
comes  over  us  all  with  years  and  suffering." 

Rose  did  not  answer,  but  she  stood  looking  intently  at  the  speaker, 
more  than  a  minute.  Change  had  indeed  come  over  her,  if  she  had  ever 
possessed  the  power  to  please  the  fancy  of  any  living  man.  Her  fea- 
tures bad  always  seemed  diminutive  and  mean  for  her  assumed  sex,  as 
her  voice  was  small  and  cracked ;  but,  making  every  allowance  for  the 
probabilities.  Rose  found  it  difficult  to  imagine  that  Jack  Tier  had  ever 
possessed,  even  under  the  high  advantages  of  youth  and  innocence,  the 
attractions  so  common  to  her  sex.  Her  skin  had  acquired  the  tanning 
of  the  sea,  the  expression  of  her  face  had  become  hard  and  worldly,  and 
her  habits  contributed  to  render  those  natural  consequences  of  exposure 
and  toil  even  more  than  usually  marked  and  decided.  By  saying 
<<  habits,"  however,  we  do  not  mean  that  Jack  had  ever  drunk  to  excess, 
as  happens  with  so  many  seamen  \  for  this  would  have  been  doing  her 
injustice ;  but  she  smoked  and  chewed ;  practices  that  intoxicate  in  an- 
other form,  and  lead  nearly  as  many  to  the  grave  as  excess  in  drinking. 
Thus  all  the  accessories  about  this  singular  being  partook  of  the  charac- 
ter of  her  recent  life  and  duties.  Her  walk  was  between  a  waddle  and 
a  seaman's  roll,  her  hands  were  discoloured  with  tar  and  had  got  to  be 
full  of  knuckles,  and  even  her  feet  had  degenerated  into  that  flat,  broad- 
toed  form,  that,  perhaps,  sooner  distinguishes  caste,  in  connection  with 
outward  appearances,  than  any  one  other  physical  peculiarity.  Yet  this 
being  A<m/  once  been  young;  had  once  been  even  fair;  and  had  once 
possessed  that  feminine  air  and  lightness  of  form,  that  as  often  belongs  to 
the  youthful  American  of  her  sex,  perhaps,  as  to  the  girl  of  any  other 
nation  on  earth.  Rose  continued  to  gaze  at  her  companion,  for  some 
time,  when  she  walked  musingly  to  a  window  that  looked  out  upon 
the  port. 

''  I  am  not  certain  whether  it  would  do  him  good,  or  not,  to  see  this 
sight,**  she  said,  addressing  the  wife  kindly,  doubtful  of  the  effect  of  her 
words,  even  on  the  latter.  "  But  here  are  the  sloop  of  war,  and  several 
other  vessels." 


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OB,  THE  ISLETTS  OF  THE  GULF.  195 

**  Aj,  she  'ft  there  ;  but  never  will  hi$  foot  be  pat  on  board  the  Swash 
again.  When  he  bought  that  brig  I  was  still  yonng  and  agreeable  to 
him,  and  he  gave  her  my  maiden-name,  which  was  Mary,  or  Molly  Swash. 
Bat  that  is  all  changed ;  I  wonder  he  did  not  change  the  name  of  his 
Teasel,  with  his  change  of  feelin's.*' 

*'  Tlien  yon  did  r^ly  sail  in  the  brig,  m  former  times,  and  knew  the 
seaman  whose  name  you  assumed  T 

"  Many  years.  Tier,  with  whose  name  I  made  free,  on  account  of 
his  sise  and  some  resemblance  to  me  in  form,  died  under  my  care,  and 
his  protection  fell  into  my  hands,  which  first  put  the  notion  into  my  head 
of  hailing  as  his  representatiTO.  Yes,  I  knew  Tier  in  the  brig,  and 
we  were  left  ashore  at  the  same  time ;  I,  intentionally,  I  make  no  ques- 
tioB ;  and  he  beoanse  Stephen  Spike  was  in  a  hurry,  and  did  not  choose 
to  wait  for  a  man.  The  poor  fellow  caught  the  yellow  fever  the  very 
next  day,  and  did  not  live  forty-eight  hours.  So  the  world  goes ;  them 
that  wish  to  live,  die ;  and  them  that  wants  to  die,  live." 

^  You  have  had  a  hard  time  for  one  of  yoUr  sex,  poor  Jack— quite 
twenty  years  a  sailor,  did  you  not  tell  me  ?*' 

•*  Every  day  of  it.  Miss  Rose ;  and  bitter  years  have  they  been.  For 
the  whole  of  that  time  have  I  been  in  chase  of  my  husband,  keeping  my 
own  secret,  and  slaving  like  a  horse  for  a  livelihood." 

**  You  could  not  have  been  old  when  he  left — that  is — when  you 
parted  r 

**  Call  it  by  its  true  name,  and  say  at  once — ^when  he  desarted  me. 
1  was  under  thirty  by  two  or  three  years,  and  was  still  like  my  own  sex 
to  look  on.     All  that  is  changed  since ;  but  I  was  comely,  then" 

^*  Why  did  Capt.  Spike  abandon  you.  Jack  ?  you  have  never  told  me 
that." 

**  Because  he  fancied  another.  And  ever  since  that  time  he  has  been 
fimcying  others  instead  of  remembering  me.  Had  he  got  you,  Miss 
Rose,  I  think  he  would  have  been  content  for  the  rest  of  his  days." 

**  Be  certain,  Jack,  I  should  never  have  consented  to  marry  Captain 
Spike." 

^  You  're  well  out  of  his  hands,"  answered  Jack,  sighing  heavilv, 
which  was  much  the  most  feminine  thing  she  had  done  during  the  whole 
conversation ;  **  well  out  of  his  hands,  and  God  be  praised  it  is  so  I  H^ 
should  have  died  before  I  would  let  him  carry  you  off  the  island^  husband 
or  no  husband  I" 

**  It  might  have  exceeded  your  power  to  prevent  it^  under  other  cir- 
cumstances. 

Rose  now  continued  looking  out  of  the  window  in  silence.  Her 
thoughts  reverted  to  her  aunt  and  Biddy,  and  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks  as  she  remembered  the  love  of  one  and  the  fidelity  of  the  other. 
Their  horrible  fste  had  given  her  a  shock  that  at  first  menaced  her  with 
a  severe  fit  of  illness ;  but  her  strong  good  sense  and  excellent  constitu- 
tion,  both  sustained  by  her  piety  and  Harry's  manly  tenderness,  had 
brought  her  through  the  danger,  and  left  her  as  the  reader  now  sees  her, 
struggling  with  her  own  griefs,  in  order  to  be  of  use  to  the  still  more 
unhappy  woman  who  hsd  so  singularly  become  her  friend  and  com- 
panion. 

The  reader  will  really  have  anticipated  that  Jack  Tier  had  early 
made  the  females  on  board  the  Swash  her  confidants.  Rose  had  known 
the  outlmes  of  her  history  from  the  first  few  days  they  were  at  sea  to- 

VOL.  XXIII.  p 


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196  CAPTAIN  spike; 

geiber,  which  is  the  expknation  of  the  Tbible  iDtimacy  that  had  caused 
Malford  so  much  surprise.  Jaek*8  motive  in  making  hb  revelations 
might  possibly  have  been  tinctured  with  jealousy,  but  a  desire  to  save 
one  as  young  and  innocent  as  Rose  was  at  its  bottom.  Few  persons  bat 
a  wife  could  have  supposed  that  Rose  could  have  be^i  in  any  danger 
from  a  lover  like  Spike ;  but  Jack  saw  him  with  the  eyes  of  her  own 
youth,  and  of  past  recollections  rather  than  with  those  of  truth. 

A  movement  from  the  wounded  man  first  drew  Rose  from  the  win- 
dow. Drying  her  eyes  hastily,  she  turned  towards  him,  fancying  that 
she  might  prove  the  better  nurse  of  the  two,  notwithstanding  Jack's 
greater  interest  in  the  patient 

**  What  place  is  this,  and  why  am  I  here  ?*'  demanded  Spike,  with 
more  strength  of  voice  than  could  have  been  expected  after  all  that  had 
passed.  *'  This  is  not  a  cabin— not  the  Swash  ; — it  looks  like  a  hos- 
pital." 

^*  It  is  a  hospital.  Captain  Spike,**  said  Rose  gently,  drawing  near  the 
bed.  **  You  have  been  hurt,  and  have  been  brought  to  Key  West,  and 
placed  in  the  hospital.  I  hope  you  feel  better,  and  that  yon  suffer  no  pain." 

**  My  head  isn't  right — I  don't  know — everything  seems  turned  round 
with  me — ^perhaps  it  will  all  come  out  as  it  should.  I  begin  to  remem- 
ber— ^where  is  my  brig  ?" 

'*  She  is  lost  on  the  rocks ;  — the  seas  have  broken  her  into  frag- 
ments." 

<'  That  is  melancholy  news,  at  any  rate.  Ah  I  Miss  Rose,  God  bless 
you  I  r  ve  had  terrible  dreams  I  Well,  it 's  pleasant  to  be  among  friends. 
What  creature  is  that  ? — where  does  she  come  from  ?" 

" That  is  Jack  Tier;"  answered  Rose,  steadily,  << she  turns  out  to  be 
a  woman,  and  has  put  on  her  proper  dress,  in  order  to  attend  on  you 
during  your  illness.  Jack  has  never  left  your  bedside  since  we  have  been 
here." 

A  long  silence  succeeded  this  revelation.  Jack's  eyes  twinkled,  and 
she  hitched  her  body  half  aside,  as  if  to  conceal  her  features,  where 
emotions  that  were  unusual  were  at  work  with  the  muscles.  Rose 
thought  it  might  be  well  to  leave  the  man  and  wife  alone,  and  she  managed 
to  get  out  of  the  room  unobserved. 

«  Spike  continued  to  gaze  at  the  strange-looking  female  who  was  now 
his  sole  companion.  Gradually  his  recollection  returned,  and  with  it 
the  full  consciousness  of  his  situation.  He  might  not  have  been  fully 
aware  of  the  absolute  certainty  of  his  approaching  death,  but  he  must 
have  known  that  his  wound  was  of  a  very  grave  character,  and  that 
the  result  might  early  prove  fatal.  Still,  that  strange  and  unknown 
figure  haunted  him ;  a  figure  that  was  so  different  from  any  he  had  ever 
seen  before,  and  which,  in  spite  of  its  present  dress,  seemed  to  belong 
quite  as  much  to  one  sex  as  to  the  other.  As  for  Jack — we  call  Molly 
Qr  Mary  Swash  by  her  masculine  appellation,  not  only  because  it  is  more 
familiar,  but  because  the  other  name  seems  really  out  of  place  as 
applied  to  such  a  person — as  for  Jack,  there  she  sat,  with  her  face  half 
averted,  thumbing  the  canvass,  and  endeavouring  to  ply  the  needle,  but 
perfectly  mute.  She  was  conscious  that  Spike's  eyes  were  on  her, 
and  a  lingering  feeling  of  her  sex  told  her  how  much  time,  exposure,  and 
circumstances  had  changed  her  person,  and  she  would  gladly  have  hid- 
den the  defects  in  her  appearance.  Mary  Swash  was  the  daughter  as 
well  as  the  wife  of  a  ship-master.  In  her  youth,  as  has  been  said  before, 


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OR,   THE   ISLETS   OF  THE   GULP.  197 

she  had  even  been  pretty,  and  down  to  the  day  when  her  husband  de- 
serted her,  she  would  have  been  thought  a  female  of  a  comely  appearance, 
rather  than  the  reverse.  Her  hair,  in  particular,  though  slightly  coarse, 
perhaps^  had  been  rich  and  abundant ;  and  the  change  from  the  long,  dark, 
shining,  flowing  locks  which  she  still  possessed  in  her  thirtieth  year,  to  the 
short  grey  bristles  that  now  stood  exposed^  without  a  cap  or  covering  of 
any  sort,  was  one  very  likely  to  destroy  all  identity  of  appearance. 
Then  Jack  had  passed  frbm  wnat  might  be  called  youth  to  the  verge  of 
old  age,  in  the  interval  that  she  had  been  separated  from  her  husband. 
Her  shape  had  changed  entirely,  her  complexion  was  utterly  gone,  and 
her  features,  always  unmeaning,  though  feminine  and  suitable  to 
her  sex,  had  become  hard  and  slightly  coarse.  Still,  there  was  some- 
thing of  her  former  self  about  Jack  that  bewildered  Spike,  and  his  eyes 
continued  fastened  on  her  for  quite  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  in  profound 
silence. 

^  Give  me  some  water,"  said  the  wounded  man.  <*  I  wish  some  water 
to  drink." 

Jack  arose,  filled  a  tumbler,  and  brought  it  to  the  side  of  the  bed. 
Spike  took  the  glass  and  drank,  but  the  whole  time  his  eyes  were  ri- 
vetted  on  his  strange  nurse.  When  his  thirst  was  appeased,  he 
asked, 

**  Who  are  you?     How  came  you  here  V 

^  I  am  your  nurse.  It  is  common  to  place  nurses  at  the  bedoides  of 
the  sick." 

*'  Are  you  man  or  woman  ?'* 

**  That  is  a  question  I  hardly  know  how  to  answer.  Sometimes  I 
think  myself  each,  sometimes  neither." 

**  Did  I  ever  see  you  before  V* 

'*  Often,  and  quite  lately.     I  sailed  with  you  in  your  last  voyage.*' 

'*  You  I — that  cannot  be.     If  so,  what  is  your  name  ?" 

"Jack  Tier." 

A  long  pause  succeeded  this  announcement,  which  induced  Spike 
to  muse  as  intently  as  his  condition  would  allow,  though  the  truth 
did  not  yet  flash  on  his  understanding.  At  length,  the  bewildered  man 
again  spoke. 

"  Are  you  Jack  Tier  ?"  he  said  slowly,  like  one  whe  doubted.  **  Yes, 
I  now  see  the  resemblance,  and  it  was  that  which  puzzled  me.  Are 
they  so  rigid  in  this  hospital,  that  you  have  been  obliged  to  put  on  wo- 
man's cloUies  in  order  to  lend  me  a  helping  hand  ?" 

"  I  am  dressed  as  you  see,  and  for  good  reasons." 

"  But  Jack  Tier  run,  like  that  rascal  Mulford, — ay,  I  remember  now  i 
you  were  in  the  boat,  when  I  overhauled  you  all,  on  the  reef." 

"  Very  true ;  I  was  in  the  boat.  But  I  never  run,  Stephen  Spike* 
It  was  you  who  abandoned  me  on  the  islet  in  the  guff,  and  that  makes 
the  second  time  in  your  life  that  you  have  left  me  ashore,  when  it  was 
your  duty  to  carry  me  to  sea." 

**  The  first  time  I  was  in  a  hurry  and  could  not  wait  for  you ;  this  last 
time  you  took  sides  with  the  women.  But  for  your  interference  I  should 
have  got  Rose,  and  married  her,  and  all  would  now  have  been  well 
with  me." 

This  was  an  awkward  announcement  for  a  man  to  make  to  his  legal 
wife.  But,  after  all  Jack  had  endured,  and  all  Jack  had  seen  during  the 
late  voyage,  she  was  not  to  be  overcome  by  this  avowal.     Her  self- 

p  2 

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198  CAPTAIN  spike; 

command  extended  so  far  as  to  prevent  any  open  manifestation  of  emo- 
tion, however  much  her  feelings  were  excited. 

**  I  took  sides  with  the  women  because  I  am  a  woman  myself/'  she 
answered,  speaking  at  length  with  decision,  as  if  determined  to  bring 
matters  to  a  head  at  once.  '<  It  is  natural  for  us  all  to  take  sides  with 
our  kind." 

<<  You  a  woman,  Jack  ? — that  is  very  remarkable.  Smce  when  have 
you  hailed  for  a  woman  ?  You  have  shipped  with  me  twice,  and  each 
time  as  a  man,— though  I  never  thought  you  able  to  do  seaman's 
duty." 

^^  Nevertheless,  I  am  what  you  see — a  woman  bom  and  edicated ;  one 
that  never  had  on  man's  dress  till  I  knew  you.  You  supposed  me  to  be 
a  man  when  I  came  off  to  you  m  the  skiff  to  the  eastward  of  Riker's 
Island ;  but  I  was  then  what  you  now  see." 

'*  I  begin  to  understand  matters,"  rejoined  the  invalid,  musingly. 
**  Ay,  ay,  it  opens  upon  me ;  and  I  now  see  how  it  was  you  made  such 
fair  weather  with  Madam  Budd  and  pretty,  pretty  Rose.  Rose  m 
pretty,  Jack ;  you  must  admit  ihaif  though  you  he  a  woman*" 

^*  Rose  %»  pretty,  I  do  admit  it ;  and  what  is  better,  she  is  good^  It 
required  a  heavy  draft  on  Jack's  justice  and  magnanimity,  however,  to 
make  this  concession." 

**  And  yon  told  Rose  and  Madam  Budd  about  your  sex,  and  that  was 
the  reason  they  took  to  you  so  on  the  v'y'ge  ?" 

''  I  told  them  who  I  was,  and  why  I  went  abroad  as  a  man.  They 
know  my  whole  story." 

"  Did  Rose  approve  of  your  sailing  under  false  colours,  Jack  ?" 

'<  You  must  ask  that  of  Rose  herself.  My  story  made  her  my  friend ; 
but  she  never  said  anything  for  or  against  my  disguise." 

"  It  was  no  great  disguise,  a'ter  all,  Jack.  Now  you  *re  fitted  out  in 
your  own  clothes,  you  *ve  a  sort  of  half- rigged  look.  One  would  be  as 
likely  to  set  you  down  as  a  man  under  jury-canvass  as  for  a  woman." 

Jack  made  no  answer  to  this,  but  she  sighed  very  heavily.  As  for 
Spike  himself,  he  was  silent  for  some  little  time,  not  only  from  exhaus- 
tion, but  because  he  suffered  pain  from  his  wound.  The  needle  was 
diligently  but  awkwardly  plied  in  this  pause. 

Spike  s  ideas  were  still  a  little  confused,  but  a  silence  and  rest  of  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  cleared  them  materially.  At  the  end  of  that  time 
he  again  asked  for  water.  When  he  had  drunk,  and  Jack  was  once 
more  seated  with  his  side-face  towards  him,  at  work  with  the  needle, 
the  Captain  gazed  long  and  intently  at  this  strange  woman.  It  hap- 
pened that  the  profile  of  Jack  preserved  more  of  the  resemblance  to  her 
former  self  than  the  full  face,  and  it  was  this  resemblance  that  now  at- 
tracted Spike's  attention,  though  not  the  smallest  suspicion  of  the  truth 
yet  gleamed  upon  him.  He  saw  something  that  was  ^miliar,  though  he 
could  not  even  tell  what  that  something  was,  much  less  to  what  or  whom 
it  bore  any  resemblance.     At  length  he  spoke. 

*<  I  was  told  that  Jack  Tier  was  dead,"  he  said ;  <<  that  he  took  the 
fever  and  was  in  his  grave  within  eight  and  forty  hours  afler  we  sailed* 
That  was  what  they  told  me  of  ^tm." 

"  And  what  did  they  tell  you  of  your  own  wife,  Stephen  Spike ;  she 
that  you  left  ashore  at  the  time  Jack  was  left  ?" 

*<  They  said  she  did  not  die  for  three  years  later.  I  heard  of  her 
death  at  New  Orieens  three  years  later." 


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OR,  THE  ISLETS   OF  THE  GULP.  199 

^  And  how  could  you  leave  her  ashore — Bhe,  your  true  and  lawfbl 
wife?" 

'*  It  was  a  had  things**  answered  Spike,  who,  like  all  other  mortals, 
regarded  his  own  past  career,  now  that  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the 
grave,  very  differently  from  what  he  had  regarded  it  in  the  hour  of  his 
health  and  strength  ;  '*  yes,  it  vxu  a  very  had  thing ;  and  I  wish  it  was 
undone.  But,  it  is  too  late  now ;  she  died  of  the  fever,  too ;  that  is 
some  comfort ;  had  she  died  of  a  broken  heart,  I  could  never  have 
forgiven  myself.  Molly  was  not  without  her  faults ;  great  faults  I  con- 
sidered them ;  but,  on  the  whole,  Molly  was  a  g^d  creatur'  I" 

«  You  Kked  her,  Oien,  Stephen  Spike?" 

"  I  can  truly  say  that  when  I  married  Molly,  and  old  Captain  Swash 
put  his  daughter's  hand  mto  mine,  that  the  woman  was  not  living  who 
was  better  in  my  judgment,  or  handsomer  in  my  eyes." 

^  Ay,  ay, — when  you  married  her ;  but  how  was  it  a'terwards,  when 
you  was  tired  of  her,  and  saw  another  that  was  fairer  in  your  eyes  ?" 

^  I  desarted  her,  and  God  has  punished  me  for  the  sin.  Do  you 
know,  Jack,  that  luck  has  never  been  with  me  since  that  day.  Often,  and 
often,  have  I  bethought  me  of  it,  and  sartain  as  you  sit  there,  no  great 
luck  has  ever  been  with  me,  or  my  craft,  since  I  went  off  leaving  my  wife 
ashore.  What  was  made  in  one  vYge,  was  lost  in  the  next.  Up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  the  whole  time,  for  so  many,  many  long  years,  that 
gray  hairs  set  in,  and  old  age  was  beginning  to  get  close  aboard,  and 
I  as  poor  as  ever.  It  has  been  rub  and  g^  with  me  ever  since ;  and 
I  've  had  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  keep  the  brig  in  motion^  the  only 
means  that  was  left  to  make  the  two  ends  meet." 

<<  And  did  not  all  this  make  you  think  of  your  poor  wife,  she  whom 
you  had  so  wronged  ?'* 

**  I  thought  of  little  else,  until  I  heard  of  her  death  at  New  Otleens, 
and  then  I  gave  it  up  as  useless.  Could  I  have  fallen  in  with  Molly  at 
any  time  a'ter  the  first  six  months  of  my  desartion,  she  and  I  would  have 
come  together  again,  and  everything  would  have  been  forgotten.  I 
know'd  her  very  natur',  which  was  all  forgiveness  to  me  at  the  bottom, 
though  seemingly  so  spiteful  and  hard." 

'*  Yet  you  wanted  to  have  this  Rose  Budd,  who  is  only  too  young  and 
handsome,  and  good,  for  you." 

"  I  was  tired  of  being  a  widower.  Jack,  and  Rose  ii  wonderful  pretty  I 
She  has  money,  too,  and  might  make  the  evening  of  my  days  comfort- 
able. The  brig  was  old,  as  you  must  know,  and  has  long  been  off  of  all 
the  insurance  offices'  books,  and  she  couldn't  hold  together  much  longer. 
But  for  this  sloop-of-war  I  should  have  put  her  off  on  the  Mexicans, 
and  they  would  have  lost  her  to  our  people  in  a  month." 

^  And  was  it  an  honest  thing  to  sell  an  old  and  worn  out  craft  to  any 
one,  Stephen  Spike?" 

Spike  had  a  conscience  that  had  become  hard  as  iron  by  means  of 
trade.  He  who  traffics  much,  most  especially  if  his  dealings  be  on  so 
small  a  scale  as  to  render  constant  investigations  of  the  minor  qualities 
of  things  necessary,  must  be  a  very  fortunate  man  if  he  preserve  his 
conscience  in  any  better  condition.  When  Jack  made  this  allusion, 
therefore,  the  dying  man — for  death  was  much  nearer  to  Spike  than 
even  he  supposed,  though  he  no  longer  hoped  for  his  own  recovery^ — 
when  Jack  made  this  allusion,  then,  the  dying  man  was  a  good  deal  at 
a  loss  to  comprehend  it.     He  saw  no  particular  harm  in  making  the 


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200  CAPTAIN    SPIKE. 

best  bargain  be  could,  nor  was  it  easy  for  bim  to  understand  wby  be 
migbt  not  dispose  of  any  tbing  be  possessed  for  tbe  bigbest  price  tbat 
was  to  be  bad.     Still  be  answered  in  an  apologetic  sort  of  way. 

''Tbe  brig  was  old^  I  acknowledge,"  be  said,  "but  sbe  was  strong 
and  might  bave  run  a  long  time.  I  only  spoke  of  ber  capture  as  a  tbing 
likely  to  take  place  soon,  if  tbe  Mexicans  got  ber,  so  tbat  ber  qualities 
were  of  no  great  account,  unless  it  migbt  be  ber  speed,  and  tbat  you 
know  was  excellent,  Jack.** 

''  And  you  regret  tbat  brig,  Stepben  Spike,  lying  as  you  do  there  on 
your  deatb-bed,  more  tban  any  thing  else  ?  ** 

''  Not  as  much  as  I  do  pretty  Rose  Budd,  Jack :  Rosy  is  so  delight- 
ful to  look  at  I  ** 

Tbe  muscles  of  Jack's  face  twitched  a  little,  and  she  looked  deeply 
mortified,  for,  to  own  the  tquth,  sbe  hoped  tbat  tbe  conversation  so  far 
had  so  turned  her  delinquent  husband's  thoughts  to  the  past,  as  to  have 
revived  in  bim  some  of  bis  former  interest  in  herself.  It  is  true,  he 
still  believed  ber  dead ;  but  this  was  a  circumstance  Jack  overlooked, 
so  bard  is  it  to  bear  the  praises  of  a  rival  and  be  just.  Sbe  felt  the 
necessity  of  being  more  explicit,  and  determined  at  once  to  come  to  the 
point. 

•  **  Stephen  Spike,"  she  said,  steadily  drawing  near  to  the  bed-side, 
'*  you  should  be  told  tbe  truth,  when  you  are  heard  thus  extolling  tbe 
good  looks  of  Rose  Budd,  with  less  tban  eight  and  forty  hours  of  life 
remaining.  Mary  Swash  did  not  die,  as  you  bave  supposed,  three  years 
a*ter  you  desarted  ber,  but  is  living  at  this  moment.  Had  you  read  tbe 
letter  I  gave  you  in  tbe  boat,  just  before  you  made  me  jump  into  the 
sea,  tJuU  would  bave  told  you  where  she  is  to  be  found.*' 

Spike  stared  at  tbe  speaker  intently,  and  when  her  cracked  voice 
ceased,  his  look  was  that  of  a  man  who  was  terrified,  as  well  as  be- 
wildered. Tbis  did  not  arise  still  from  any  gleamings  of  the  real  state 
of  the  case,  but  from  tbe  soreness  with  which  his  conscience  pricked 
him,  when  he  heard  tbat  bis  much  wronged  wife  was  alive.  He  fancied 
with  a  vivid  and  rapid  glance  at  tbe  probabilities,  all  tbat  a  woman 
abandoned  would  be  likely  to  endure  in  the  course  of  so  many  long  and 
suffering  years.  *'  Are  you  sure  of  what  you  say«  Jack  ?  you  wouldn't 
take  advantage  of  my  situation,  to  tell  me  an  untruth  ?" 

**  As  certain  of  it  as  of  my  own  existence.  I  have  seen  her  quite 
lately — talked  with  ber  of  you — ^in  short,  sbe  is  now  at  Key  West, 
knows  your  state,  and  has  a  wife's  fe^lin's  to  come  to  your  bedside." 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  and  tbe  many  gleamings  be  had  bad  of  the 
facts  during  their  late  intercourse  on  board  tbe  brig.  Spike  did  not  guess 
at  tbe  truth.  He  appeared  astounded,  and  bis  terror  seemed  to  in- 
crease. 

'*I  bave  another  thing  to  tell  you,"  continued  Jack,  pausing  but 
a  moment  to  collect  her  own  thoughts,  ''Jack  Tier,  tbe  real  Jack 
Tier,  be  who  sailed  with  you  of  old,  and  whom  you  left  ashore  at 
tbe  same  time  you  desarted  your  wife,  did  die  of  tbe  fever,  as  you  was 
told,  in  eight  and  forty  hours  a'ter  the  brig  went  to  sea." 

"  Then  who,  in  tbe  name  of  Heaven,  are  you  ?  How  came  you  to 
hail  by  another's  name,  as  well  as  by  another  sex  ?" 

*'  What  could  a  woman  do,  whose  husband  bad  desarted  ber  in  a 
strange  land?" 

*'  That  is  remarkable  I     So  you  Ve  been  married  ?    I  should  not  bave 


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THE   POSTMAN. 


201 


thought  that  possible.  And  your  husband  desarted  you,  too, — well, 
such  things  do  happen.** 

Jack  now  felt  a  severe  pang.  She  could  not  but  see  that  her  un- 
gainly— we  had  almost  said  her  unearthly  appearance,  prevented  the  cap- 
tain from  even  yet  suspecting  the  truth,  and  the  meaning  of  his  language 
was  not  easily  to  be  mistaken.  That  any  one  should  have  married  ker^ 
seemed  to  her  husband  as  improbable,  as  it  was  probable  he  would  run 
away  from  her,  as  soon  as  it  was  in  his  power  after  the  ceremony. 

*' Stephen  Spike,**  resumed  Jack,  solemnly,  <</am  MarySwasAiI — 
/am  your  wife  I** 

Spike  started  in  his  bed ;  then  he  buried  his  face  in  the  coverlet^  and 
he  actually  groaned.  In  bitterness  of  spirit  the  woman  turned  away  and 
wept  Her  feelings  had  been  blunted  by  misfortunes,  and  the  collisions 
of  a  selfish  world,  but  enough  of  former  self  remained  to  make  this 
the  hardest  of  all  the  blows  she  had  ever  received.  Her  husband,  dying 
as  he  was,  as  he  must  and  did  know  himself  to  be,  shrank  from  one  ^ 
her  appearance,  unsexed  as  she  had  become  by  habits,  and  chang^  by 
years  and  suffering. 


THE     POSTMAN. 


BT   H.   B.  ADDISON. 


Oh  t  speed  thee  on,  oh !  postman,  speed, 

Pause  not  to  draw  a  breath  ; 
On  passing  sighs  bestow  na  heed. 

Thou  bearest  life  or  deaUi. 
Each  step  conveys  a  nearer  knell 

Of  joy  to  many  a  heart ; 
While  many  a  line  shall  sorrow  tell 

And  bid  e'en  hope  depart. 
Then  speed  thee  on,  oh !  postman,  speed. 

Pause  not  to  draw  a  breath ; 
^n  passing  crowds  bestow  no  heed, 

Thou  bearest  life  or  death. 

Yon  little  note  with  mourning  seal 

A  tale  of  joys  shall  bear. 
The  uncle's  death,  its  lines  reveal 

To  his  imprison'd  heir  ; 
The  miser "»  gone,  the  spendthrift  now 

Shall  soon  destroy  his  health ; 
His  task,  his  only  ardent  vow. 

To  waste  thy  hoarded  wealth. 

Then  speed,  &c. 

Those  ill-directed  lines  shall  bear 

To  yonder  widow's  heart 
A  tale  of  grief  and  deep  despair 

Beyond  the  healing  art. 
Her  only  son,  a  soldier  brave. 

His  mother's  iprop  and  pride, 
On  foreign  shores  has  found  a  grave. 

In  Victory's  lap  he  died. 

Then  speed,  &c 

Yon  sweetly-scented  little  note 
Which  wBfts  a  lover"!  sighs, 

A  ruined  rake  in  anger  wrote 
Beneath  a  rivaVs  eyes — 


That  rival  who  has  brought  him  low. 

His  pride  and  yet  his  curse. 
Who  bids  him  woo,  since  she  must  know 

She  '11  share  the  victim's  purse. 
Then  speedy  &«. 

Yon  well-directed  folded  sheet 

Contains  no  jocund  fun, 
It  talks  of  '<  daims  compelled  to  meet," 

It  speaks  the  flinty  dun. 
The  little  crumpled  dirty  thing, 

Which  you  aside  have  laid. 
Shall  tidings  joyous,  happv  bring 

To  yonder  country  maid. 

Then  speed,  &o. 

The   rich  man's   prayer  for  bartered 
health. 

The  broker's  deep  laid  scheme. 
The  poor  man^  cryfor  mist^aoed wealth. 

The  school^rl's  early  dream* 
The  base  seducer's  luring  tale, 

The  falsehood  of  a  wife, 
Dishonest  dealers  going  to  fail. 

And  sharper's  gambling  life. 

Then  speed,  &o* 

Thy  little  burden  bears  more  woe. 

More  joy,  more  hopes,  more  fears. 
Than  any  living  mind  can  know 

Or  learn  in  fifty  years  ; 
For  thoughts    unbreathed  are   wafted 
there, 

And  minds,  though  far  apart. 
Shall  tell  far  more  Uuin  language  dar€. 

Or  utterance  oan  imparc 

Then  speed,  &o. 


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202 
THE  OLD  MAN  AND  HIS  GUESTS. 

B7  H.  J.   WHITLIMa. 

«  While  I  tooch  the  striog, 

Wreathe  my  brows  wiih  laurel) 
For  the  tale  I  bring 
Has,  at  least,  a  moral*' 

The  following  story  is  gathered  from  a  gossiping  tradition  which, 
although  probably  hitherto  unknown  to  the  reader,  is  common 
enough  in  the  locality  named.  Its  leading  incidents  are,  with  some 
slight  occasional  variation,  in  the  mouth  of  every  peasant  in  the 
country  round,  where  they  are  cherished  and  regarded  with  a  very 
suspicious  kind  of  veneration. 

IDLESSE ;  OR,  THE  NOON-DAY  HALT. 

TowABDs  the  close  of  the  summer  of  1606  a  party  of  disbanded 
spearmen  had  just  returned  from  assisting  one  of  the  pugnacious 
bishops  of  Cologne  in  an  attack,  common  enough  in  Uiose  days, 
upon  the  territories  of  some  of  his  neighbours.  Contrary,  however, 
to  the  custom  of  suck  mai  at  such  times,  they  were  wandering  along 
silently  and  discouraged,  for  they  had  gained  but  little  wherewith 
to  line  their  pockets  by  the  unlucky  war  which  had  been  waged 
against  the  Bavarian  princes.  That  portion  of  the  church-militant 
under  whose  banner  they  enlisted  themselves,  seems  to  have  had  the 
worst  of  it,  and  now,  they  knew  not  to-day,  how  they  should  supply 
the  wants  of  the  morrow. 

The  times  must,  indeed,  have  appeared  to  them  to  be  particularly 
hard,  since  the  emperor  had  enjoined  universal  peace  among  the 
rulers  throughout  the  holy  Roman  empire,  in  order  the  better  t8 
assist  the  necessary  combination  against  the  danger  which  still 
threatened  its  frontier  on  the  side  of  Turkey.  All  nope,  therefore, 
of  occupation  at  home  was  for  the  present  at  an  end  ;  and,  to  fight 
against  turban'd  infidels,  carrying  horse-tails  and  crooked  sabres,  was 
the  last  thing  likely  to  enter  the  heads  of  these  worthies,  not  be- 
cause they  dreaded  hard  knocks,  but  because  they  cared  not  to  war 
in  an  already  devastated  border,  where,  when  the  fight  was  done, 
there  was  but  little  to  expect  by  way  of  comfort  for  d^  throats  and 
hungry  stomachs. 

They  were,  indeed,  a  motley  and  ill-assorted  group,  numbering 
amongst  them  men  of  all  heights  and  ages,  ready  to  do  battle  and  to 
sell  their  blood  in  the  cause  of  any  master,  however  desperate  or 
lawless  his  object  might  be.  Their  halberds  and  steel  caps  were  all 
rusting  through  the  neglect  consequent  upon  recent  disuse ;  their 
swords  no  longer  glistened  with  their  wonted  brightness ;  their  buff 
coats  shewed  occasional  spots  of  mouldy  hue ;  their  wide  trunk- 
hose  had  long  ago  lost  their  original  colour ;  their  shoes  stained  by 
the  soil  and  service  of  many  countries,  promised  soon  to  part  com- 
pany with  the  feet  they  so  madequately  protected ;  and,  altogether, 
they  presented  as  interesting  a  specimen  of  reckless  and  marauding 
vagabondism  as  ever  graced  the  times  we  speak  of. 


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THE  OLD  MAN   AND   HIS   GUESTS.  203 

As  tbey  wended  their  way  along  the  hot  and  dusty  road  by  Ams- 
berg,  some  sullen  and  gloomy,  others  muttering  between  their 
beards,  or  cursing  their  stars  m  no  very  measured  numbers,  they 
came  to  a  wood,  on  the  skirt  of  which  meandered  a  little  stream, 
tracing  its  crystal  course  between  alders  and  overhanging  bushes ; 
here  they  agreed  to  halt  awhile  in  the  shadow,  till  the  heat  of  the 
day  had  abated,  and  then  to  continue  their  journey. 

Little,  however,  did  such  turbulent  spirits,  accustomed  to  activity, 
though,  it  must  be  confessed,  not  always  of  the  most  praiseworthy 
kind,  brook  the  delay  in  the  Ions  cool  grass,  still  less  could  they 
think  of  slumbering.  The  place  they  had  selected  was.  to  be  sure, 
pleasant  enough  ;  but,  then,  what  could  they  do  ?  they  had  nothing 
to  wile  away  5ie  time.  If,  indeed,  a  barrel  of  the  bishop's  wine  had 
stood  there,  flanked  by  a  roaring  table,  it  would  not  only  have  been 
endurable,  but  they  would  have  revelled  and  feasted  away  in  noisy 
jubilee  till  the  last  morsel  was  eaten,  and  the  barrel  exhausted.  As 
It  was,  there  they  lay  rolling  about  in  all  the  restless  abandonment 
of  discontented  indolence.  Some  plied  the  dice  upon  a  doak  which 
had  been  outspread  for  the  purpose,  while  others  fetched  water  fhnn 
the  brook  in  tneir  iron  caps,  and,  for  the  first  time  perhaps  for  many 
years,  quenched  their  thirsts  with  a  fluid  for  whicn  throats  so  long 
accustomed  to  wine  had  but  little  relish.  The  former,  however, 
soon  became  weary  of  play  where  there  were  no  stakes ;  and  the 
others  of  a  beverage  which  yielded  neither  gratification  nor  excite- 
ment, and  the  old  sense  of  tediousness  again  returned  upon  them. 

At  this  moment  one  of  them  whose  ill-favoured  visage  was  so 
mangled  and  scarred  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  discover  in 
it  a  sound  place  as  broad  as  the  dice  he  had  been  throwing,  then 
addressed  his  comrades :  *'  Amoldi  may  as  well  take  this  opportu- 
nity of  fulfilling  his  promise,  by  telling  us  how  it  is  he  contrives  to 
find  his  way  out  of  every  scrimmage  safe  and  sound ;  for,  though  he 
is  always  the  first  to  enter  where  blows  fall  thickest,  yet  not  a 
scratch  can  he  shew  throughout  his  whole  carcass ;  and  at  every 
onset,  the  devil,  who,  I  can't  help  thinking  must  be  some  relation  of 
his,  seems  to  wrap  him  away  in  fire." 

"  True,  by  —  '  said  another,  of  younger  blood,  beneath  whose 
middle  feature  the  fledging  down  was  just  appearing  like  a  soft  lock 
of  wool,  "  all  true  ;  I  saw  Amoldi  at  Dettelbach,  standing  unhurt 
amongst  the  lances  and  swords,  which  flashed  and  glittered  around 
him  like  lightning ;  the  thunder-boxes  peppering  away  all  the  while 
as  if  it  snowed  lead ;  and  when  the  pastime  (for  it  was  nothing  else 
to  him)  was  over,  there  he  stood  leaning  on  his  halbert,  coolly  shak- 
ing out  the  bullets,  which  rattled  like  peas  from  his  breeches  and 
doublet.  But  not  one  dot  of  a  wound  had  he  on  his  impenetrable 
hide ;  while  I,  stuck  as  full  of  darts  as  a  hunted  boar,  was  hacked 
and  hewed  like  mincemeat  for  the  great  Nuremberg  sausage."* 

"  Ay,  ay  I  we  know  it,"  cried  the  others ;  **  you  are  right ;  so  tell 

*  A  gMtroDomical  work  of  art,  for  which  the  6«nnan  Florence  is  still,  thoagh 
no  more  in  90  great  a  degree,  famous  !  This  huge  saoeage,  measuring  upwards  of 
300  feet  in  length,  and  gaily  bedecked  with  ribbons  and  flowers,  was,  in  the  previ- 
ous year,  borne  through  the  streets  of  Nuremberg  on  the  butdiers*  feast-day,  to 
the  great  terror  of  the  porcine  race,  who  are  represented  with  agonised  features 
scampering  off  in  all  directions,  with  tails  curled  most  distractingly,  and  their 
whole  mass  of  blood  evidently  turned  at  the  sight  of  this  fearful  procession  ! 


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204  THE   OLD  MAN 

U8,  Amoldi^  how  you  manage  it  You  cannot  deny  that  your  skin 
is  bullet-proof,  for  we  have  all  seen  it  too  often.  You  must  tell  us, 
Arnold! ;  you  must-— you  must,  even  though  the  devil  himself  fetch 
you  for  disclosing  hb  secrets ;  so  let  us  hear  your  tongue  once  more." 

*'  You  are  much  more  likely  to  feel  the  weight  of  my  arm/'  said 
the  other,  with  a  menacing  gesture,  '^  if  you  do  not  wag  your  beards 
less  freely." 

But  it  was  of  no  avail,  his  comrades  allowed  him  no  repose ;  there 
were  those  about  him  who,  equally  desperate,  did  not  fear  him ;  and 
at  length,  after  many  a  hard  word  and  hearty  curse,  he  prepared,  if 
not  to  satisfy,  at  least  to  divert  them* 

It  must  be  remarked,  however,  that  he  did  so  with  no  eood  will ; 
gladly  would  he  have  resorted  to  blows  to  pacify  their  bantering, 
could  he  have  hoped  the  subject  would  then  have  been  suffered  to 
sleep ;  but  in  an  evil  and  unguarded  hour,  he  had,  over  the  wine 
cup,  divulged  a  few  particulars  of  his  earlier  life,  which,  though 
confused  and  broken  enough  under  the  circumstances  of  their  dis« 
closure,  were  of  sufficient  interest  to  awaken  their  curiosity,  and  ex- 
cite  a  desire  to  hear  more.  From  that  unlucky  moment  his  com- 
panions had  given  him  no  rest,  but  rallied  him  incessantly  till  he 
could  no  longer  endure  their  tormenting  recollections;  and  now, 
amidst  loud  cries  of  "  The  story  !  the  story  !  we  must  have  the  story, 
thouffh  Sathanas  himself  help  to  tell  it,"  Amoldi  thus  began  :— 

**  I  heed  not  your  miserable  lies,"  said  he,  grinding  his  teeth,  **  any 
more  than  I  should  the  drunken  babblings  of  so  many  old  women  ; 
and,  as  to  the  spells  you  speak  of,  I  know  but  of  one,  and  let  that 
suffice,  as  it  has  served  many  a  stout  man  in  his  hour  of  need,  and 
may,  perchance,  help  some  of  you  to  cheat  the  devil  a  little  longer 
of  his  due,  if  you  will  only  make  the  trial." 

The  eyes  of  the  surrounding  ffronp  glistened  with  expectation, 
and  their  faces  gathered  increased  earnestness  while  they  listened  to 
the  deep  and  measured  accents  of  the  speaker. 

<«  In  the  holy  night, 

In  the  pale  moonlight, 
Let  the  virgin  ply  her  spell. 
She  most  spin  alone, 
And  in  smother*d  tone 
Invoke  the  powers  of  hell — 
And  while  the  mystic  words  she  breathes. 
The  spindle  rolls  in  fiery  wreaths ; 
And  finished  thus  amidst  the  charm 
No  mortal  can  the  wearer  harm." 

"  But,  what  is  to  be  spun  ?"  said  his  companions. 

•*  A  linen  garment,  which  must  be  spun  by  a  pure  virgin  on  the 
holy  night,  and  worn  upon  the  naked  body,"  repbed  Amddi. 

"  And  3rou  mean  to  tell  us  that  neither  cut,  thrust,  bullet,  nor 
blow,  can  injure  the  wearer  ?" 

<<  I  do;  and  am  ready  to  uphold  that  truth  with  dagger  and 
sword ;  and,  further,  that  he  wno  wears  such  a  one  is  not  only  safe 
from  all  murderous  weapons ;  but  that  he  need  not  even  fear  the 
devil  himself,  should  he  approach  in  mortal  shape." 

"  And  you  wear  such  9  one  ?"  inquired  they. 

"  Is  it  likely  ?"  said  Amoldi,  grimly  smiling,  "  when,  as  you  all 
know,  I  am  not  lucky  enough  to  possess  a  shirt  even  of  that  sort 


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AND   HIS  GUESTS.  205 


with  >vhich  every  Christian  should  cover  his  back ;  and  then,  as  to 
the  other,  pure  virgins  are  not  very  likely  to  be  so  much  in  love 
with  me  as  to  work  the  devil's  charm  in  order  to  prolong  my  life." 

''And  yet,  methinks,  if  you  had  not  tried  it/'  rejoined  one  of  his 
hearers,  "you  would  scarcely  be  so  ready  to  pledge  life  and  limb  in 
upholding  its  efficacy." 

'<  Excuses — empty  excuses !"  cried  as  with  one  voice  the  impatient 
listeners. 

*'  Peace  I"  growled  Amoldi,  in  a  rasping  voice,—"  peace,  I  say, 
and  shame  me  no  more  that  I  have  been  such  a  babbhng  fool  thus 
far  to  utter  dead  men's  tales.  But  let  the  rest  for  ever  remain  be« 
hind  the  hedge :  'twere  dangerous  for  us  all,  so  let  it  pass,  therefore, 
^-a$  pass  it  assuredfy  will — unconcluded," 

But  the  yells  of  his  now  more  than  ever  excited  and  boisterous 
associates  would  not  permit  it. 

'*  You  skulk  behind  the  hedge  no  longer !"  cried  they.  "  If  the 
devil  were  at  your  elbow  when  you  made  the  promise,  let  him  an- 
swer as  to  its  fulfilment  now !"  and,  finding  it  in  vain  to  attempt 
quieting  them  in  any  other  way,  he  thus  once  more  began,  after 
affain  cautioning  them  of  the  duiger  they  incurred  in  listening  to  a 
charmed  tale. 

THE  SPELL. 

*'  My  birthplace  was  in  Brunswick ;  my  parents  were  Italians ; 
and  my  home  is  at  Eimbeck,  where  my  brother  still  lives.  He  work- 
ed witn  my  father  at  husbandry ;  but,  for  myself,  shovel  and  plough 
were  alike  hateful  to  me.  I  detested  the  constant  disturbance  of  the 
soil  as  the  worst  species  of  drudgery,  and  determined  to  buffet  about 


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206  THE  OLD   MAN 

the  world  in  my  own  way,  rather  than  submit  to  it  My  parents  re- 
monstrated of\en  and  strongly,  but  without  effect ;  and,  at  length, 
with  a  view  to  humour  my  Toving  and  restless  spirit,  as  well  as  to 
save  me  from  the  consequences  of  total  indolence,  sent  me  to  old 
Rudolph,  the  forester  of  the  Soiling.  With  him  I  learnt  to  trap  the 
wolf  and  to  spear  the  boar ;  to  take  from  the  fox  his  brush,  and  from 
the  bear  his  skin.  Thus  I  passed  many  a  year  of  my  earlier  life, 
pleased  enough  with  an  occupation  for  which  my  habits  and  experi- 
ence so  far  qualified  me,  that  in  skill  and  dexterity  in  all  matters  be- 
longing to  forest-crafl  few  could  equal,  and,  save  the  old  forester, 
none  could  excel  me. 

**  One  evening,  as  I  was  returning  home,  laden  with  the  spoils  of 
the  day,  old  Rudolph  met  me.  The  hand  of  death  was  on  his  brow^ 
and  he  told  me  gloomily  that  his  hour  was  come. 

** '  Once,'  said  he,  *  I  had  the  hope  to  creep  about  on  my  chase 
— albeit  old,  and  perhaps  infirm, — ^till  the  ena  of  the  world  ;  but, 
what  must  be  must, — for  who  can  control  his  destiny  ?  Before  I  go, 
however,  I  would  fain  put  vou  in  possession  of  some  secrets  with 
which  till  this  moment  you  have  been  unacquainted  ;  nor  should  I 
now  be  permitted  to  reveal  them,  were  it  not  that  the  time  of  our 
separation  is  nigh  at  hand.  A  portion  of  my  skill  I  have  already  im- 
parted to  you.  You  know  not  how  I  acquired  it,  nor  is  it  now  ne- 
cessary, since  you  have  obtained  thus  much  without  the  dread  penal- 
ty which  others  must  pay.  But  it  is  possible  it  may  not  long  avail 
you,  since  the  game  on  the  Soiling  is  daily  diminishing,  to  an  extent 
that^  without  care,  leaves  but  little  hope  for  the  future.  My  first 
counsel  to  you,  therefore,  is  to  quit  for  a  while  your  present  em- 
ployment, and  enter  for  a  year  or  two  a  free  company ;  which,  serv- 
ing different  masters  in  different  lands,  will  not  only  afford  you  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  something  of  the  world,  and  perhaps  enriching 
yourself  under  one  or  other  of  the  leaders ;  but,  on  your  return 
hither  you  will  again  find  the  game  in  its  former  abundance,  which 
has  for  the  last  few  years  been  fatally  thinned  by  two  such  devil's 
huntsmen  as  the  world  has  never  before  seen,  'Tis  true,  there  is 
less  danger  in  feathered  bolts  than  in  leaden  bullets ;  but,  against 
ihetn,  an'  thou  hast  the  courage,  thou  mayst  secure  thyself.  Thou 
seest  this,'  said  the  old  man,  at  the  same  time  holding  towards  me  a 
curiously*formed  key,  suspended  by  a  party-coloured  ribbon  from 
his  neck,  'take  it;  but  not  till  I  am  dead,'  said  he  solemnly,— 
'  mind,  not  till  I  am  dead,  Amoldi, — and  open  the  casket  which  hangs 
on  the  wall  of  the  room  where  I  sleep.  Inside  it  you  will  see  a  large 
phial,  together  with  a  parchment  scroll  Read  it,  and  you  will  find 
written  thereon  hofv,  and  for  tvhat  the  former  serves.  But,  mark  ! 
let  no  interruption  of  sounds,  whether  of  earth,  air,  or  hell,  induce 
you  for  one  moment  to  remove  your  eyes  from  the  scroll  you  are 
reading  until  all  the  contents  are  perused,  otherwise  you  are  lost,  and 
for  ever ;  but,  once  read,  then  use  it  as  ye  may, — for  the  import, 
dark,  terrible,  and  strong,  abides  on  the  memory  till  the  wing  of  the 
angel  of  death  shall  sweep  it  away.  So  much  for  thee  ;  and  now  for 
myself. 

"'When  my  crest  is  bowed,  and  my  eyes  become  cold  and 
dark,  take  me  away  to  the  Soiling  by  Uzlar ;  seek  out  a  free  space 
on  the  green  level,  clear  of  trees,  and  there  bury  me.  Lay  my  head 
towards  the  west ;  my  feet  to  the  rising  of  the  sun  ;  cover  my  grave 


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AND  HIS  GUE&rrs.  207 

with  a  thick  and  heavy  stone^  that  the  prowling  wolf  may  not  un- 
earth me,  and,  after  appeasing  his  frightful  hunger,  leave  the  rest  a 
prey  to  the  fox  and  the  raven.  Thou  canst  also  place  old  Herod  and 
a  boar-spear  with  me  in  my  grave,  for  one  knows  not  what  may 
hereafter  befal  him,  and  in  my  next  service  I  may  perchance  have 
need  of  both.  My  poor  hound  is,  like  myself,  old  and  useless,  loses 
the  scent  every  moment,  and  can  no  longer  track  his  game.  Why, 
then,  should  we  separate  ?  Why  leave  my  old  and  faithful  companion 
to  miss  his  master,  and  miserably  hunger  on  the  floor  of  the  stranger, 
amidst  recollections  of  earlier  and  better  times  ?  No,  Arnoldi,  we 
will  face  death  as  we  have  hitherto  faced  all  danger — together ;  and  I 
charge  thee  to  lay  his  bones  in  the  same  grave  with  mine.' 

'^  Thus  spake  old  Rudolph, — thus  1  promised  him, — and  at  midi 
night  he  died.  I  buried  hip,  as  he  said,  together  with  Herod  and 
the  boar-spear,  and  covered  their  grave  with  an  enormous  stone.  It 
was  not  till  my  return  from  this  said  duty,— which  showed  my  eyes 
in  those  days  to  be  little  better  than  a  woman's, — ^that  I  first  recol- 
lected the  key.  Taking,  therefore,  my  cross-bow,  and. the  imple- 
ments I  had  already  used,  I  hastened  back,  late  as  it  was,  to  the 
forest-grave ;  but,  scarcely  had  I  begun  to  dig  when  the  voices  of  the 
old  hunter  and  his  dog  came  borne  upon  the  wind,  mingled  with 
sounds  of  exultation  and  distress,  whicn  increased  as  they  approach- 
ed, till  at  length  it  seemed  as  if  a  party  of  wild  foresters  were  out  on 
the  chase,  and  pursuing  their  game  amidst  cries  and  uproar  of  the 
most  unearthly  kind.  By  this  time  all  around  had  become  involved 
in  pitchy  darkness,  and  a  violent  storm  of  wind  drove,  and  raged, 
ancf  roared  again,  as  though  it  would  rend  the  very  oaks.  My  heart 
clicked  like  a  Nuremberg  egg  ;*  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
knew  what  it  was  to  fear.  But  I  was  then  a  superstitious  boy ;  and, 
scarcely  aware  of  what  I  did,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  my 
breast,  and  again  taking  courage,  I  bent  my  bow.  ^  Come  what 
will,'  said  I,  drawing  it  with  all  my  force, — '  come  what  will  within 
the  line  of  this  bolt,  it  must  go  to  pieces,  were  it  even  the  devil 
himself.'  For  a  moment  after  the  shot  did  that  wild  music  fearfully 
increase ;  but  it  suddenly  died  awav  in  a  wail,  and  all  was  still.  The 
moon  broke  forth  from  behind  a  thick  curtain  of  clouds,  and  I  again 
resumed  my  labour. 

**  On  obtaining  the  key  from  the  yet  scarcely  cold  body,  I  instant- 
ly returned  to  the  cottage  of  the  forester.  Arriving^  I  lighted  a  pine 
fageot,  stuck  it  into  a  hook  by  the  side  of  the  fire-place,  and  pro- 
ceed to  unlodc  the  box.  The  wind  and  the  storm  again  roared 
dismally  amongst  the  trees  of  the  forest ;  a^ain  those  waiUng  sounds 
veiled  and  moaned,  and  mingled  with  fitfiu  bursts  of  unearthly  me- 
lodv ;  but,  determining  to  fulfil  my  object,  I  proceeded  as  Rudolph 
had  instructed  me,  and  found  the  phial  and  scroll  as  he  described. 
As  I  read  the  voice  of  the  old  forester  again  broke  upon  my  ear  in 
alternate  sobbing  and  laughter ;  but,  still  I  read  on !  It  seemed  as 
if  footsteps  were  around  me,  and  the  pressure  of  hands  against  my 
heart,  t  mat  conscious  of  a  presence  upon  which  I  dared  not  look.  A 
dark  vapour  filled  the  room ;  distinct,  though  transparent,  forma 
floated  between  my  eyes  and  the  thickly-inscribed  scroll ;  but,  still  I 
read  on  !  Suddenly  the  pine-faggot  was  extinguished,  and  I  felt 
myself  hurled  against  the  opposite  wall;  but  I  still  retained  the 
*  The  name  given  to  the  ^*  watch  *'  originally  made  there. 


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208  THE  OLD  HAN 

fatal  parchment^  which  now  glowed,  as  it  were,  beneath  my  fingers 
in  pale  phosphoric  characters;  and  thus  I  still  read  on!  Other 
sounds  and  voices  now  mingled  with  the  voices  of  the  night,  the 
storm  increased  to  a  hurricane,  ringing  its  wild  anthem  from  rock  to 
rock,  till,  at  the  moment  of  condudinff  the  scroll,  a  mighty  wind 
shook  the  four  comers  of  the  hut — and  it  fell !  and  I  lay  senseless 
amidst  the  scattered  ruins.  On  recovering  myself,  the  fearful  storm 
had  rolled  away,  and  all  traces  of  casket,  key,  phial,  and  scroll,  had 
entirely  disappeared.     Thus  was  the  fatal  secret  lost  and  won ! 

^' But  I  had  succeeded  in  reading  it,  and  the  appalling  recollection 
passed  not  away  ;  its  every  line  and  letter  are  impressed  upon  my 
memory  with  a  terrific  vividness,  which  nothing  can  efiace, — which 
I  would  gladly  die  to  forget, — ^for  the  fiends,"  said  he,  wiping  the 
cold  drops  of  perspiration  from  his  brow,  ''are  still  masters  of  the 
game ;  and,  the  use  of  the  spell,  its  power,  and  exercise,  had  yet  to 
be  purchased  at  a  price  which  it  was  fearful  to  pay.  *  *  Impart  it, 
however,  I  can,  though  only  upon  one  condition ;  and  that  — " 

''  Then,  in  the  name  of  all  the  fiends !"  said  his  companions,  whose 
curiosity  was  now  wrought  up  to  the  most  intense  pitch,  *'  let  us 
know  it,  for  the  terms  are  beforehand  already  agreed  to." 

*'  Draw  round,  then,"  said  Amoldi,  in  a  calmer  tone,  and  breath- 
lessly listen,  that  ye  lose  not  a  syllable  of  what  I  have  to  communi- 
cate." 

THE  UNLOOKED-FOR  INTERRUPTION. 

In  the  absorbing  interest  of  the  moment  his  auditors  had  been  al- 
together unconscious  of  the  declining  day ;  the  curtain  of  evening, 
however,  was  already  beginning  to  fall  around  them ;  the  night- 
breeze  had  arisen,  and,  sweeping  in  gusts  through  the  tall  trees  of 
the  forest,  resembled  the  tones  of  human  voices,  billing  and  answer- 
ing in  the  distance. 

Amoldi  was  about  to  proceed  with  his  story,  as  above  related, 
when  a  little  old  man,  wearing  a  long  beard  and  gray  coat,  of  queer 
outlandish  cut,  and  whose  stealthy  approach,  like  that  of  the  even- 
ing, had  been  totally  unperceived,  stood,  as  it  seemed,  all  at  once  in 
the  midst  of  them,  and,  after  a  greeting  such  as  might  be  expected 
from  an  old  acquaintance,  he  inquired  of  Amoldi  whence  they  came 
and  whither  they  were  going  ? 

As  soon  as  they  coulcT  recover  a  little  from  the  surprise  caused  by 
his  sudden  and  unexpected  approach,  they  replied, "  From  where 
war  has  been,  to  where  war  is.  We  care  not  under  what  leader,  nor 
to  what  service ;  and,  so  that  we  can  but  obtain  booty,  we  heed 
neither  the  contest  nor  the  cause." 

'*  Ah !  you  are  like  the  ravens,"  said  Orav-coat ;  "  wherever  you 
go,  ill-luck  attends  your  presence  ;  and,  although  with  such  gentle- 
men it  is  not  safe  to  joke,  joy  and  rejoicing,  no  doubt,  equ^ly  at- 
tend your  departure !" 

*'  That  is  the  consequence  of  our  trade,  old  boy  !"  said  one  of  the 
spearmen ;  ^*  and,  though  in  the  settlement  of  the  accounts  we  bring 
there  must  now  and  then  be  bloody  reckonings,  the  balance  that 
comes  to  our  share  is  gen^rally  gold " 

"  Though,  perhaps,  not  always  of  the  most  honest  colour  ?" 

''  Are  you  some  nedge-parson  seekinjor  to  hear  a  confession  ?    Sit 


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AND   HIS   GUESTS. 


209 


down  here,  then,  on  the  grass.  It  will  shortly  be  some  six  years  since 
I  murmured  into  the  priest's  ear,  and  this  will  be  a  good  opportu- 
nity to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

**  Not  quite  so  good  as  you  suppose,"  chuckled  the  merry  old  man, 
rubbing  his  hands,  and  seating  himself  amongst  them.  **  I  seek  not 
that." 

"  Then,  what  is  your  object  in  visiting  us  ?" 

"  That,"  said  Oray-coat,  *'  you  shall  presently  learn.  At  any  rate, 
I  am  no  confessor ;  and,  although  it  is  true  I  am  seeking  something, 
it  is  certainly  not  secrets  of  the  kind  to  which  you  allude.  I  am 
travelling  now  to  enlist  servants  who  are  willing  to  enter  the  employ 
of  a  powerful  master,  and  for  a  good  earnest  penny,  I  pledge  ye  my 
skin." 

*'  Then,  have  at  ye !"  cried  they,  '*  for  here  before  you  are  men  of 
the  right  stamp.  Amongst  us  is  not  one  but  has  long  ago  drunk 
brotherhood  with  old  Nick,  and,  if  necessary,  we  are  ready  to  do  so 
again.    What  is  your  master's  name  ?" 

**  Onlv  accompany  me,"  said  the  stranger,  "  and  in  time  you  shall 
know  him ;  though  to*day  it  will,  I  fear,  scarcely  be  possible.  Not- 
withstanding this,  however,  nothing  shall  be  wanting  to  you  ;  and 
here  is  the  earnest-money,  which  you  can  at  once  divide  among 
yourselves." 


WEAV)fn 


Thus  speaking  he  held  up  to  the  now  quite  restored  travellers  a 
great  leamern  purse  of  gold.  When  they  had  equally  divided  it, — 
which  was  not  accomplished  without  some  contention,  they  all  arose 
and  shouted  loud  vivats  to  their  new  master.  ''  Nav,  an*  were  he 
even  the  devil's  own  stepson,  'tis  all  one  to  us ;  long  life  to  him,  say 
we  I "    And  their  hoarse  throats  roared  in  unison  together  like  the 


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210  THE  OLD  MAN 

gentle  bellowing  of  a  herd  of  wild  bulls.'  This  demonstration  ended^ 
they  donned  their  rusty  caps,  girded  on  their  swords,  shouldered 
Uieir  halberds,  and  prepared  to  follow  their  new  leader. 


THE  ENTERTAINMENT. 
Thb  way  they  took  was  along  a  somewhat  dreary  forest-path,  the 
old  man  heading  the  troop,  and  humming  ever  and  anon  broken 
snatches  of  song. 

*'  Mv  food  is  fruit  unknown  to  man, 

I  drink  a  draught  he  never  can 
Till  he  sleeps  his  last  long  sleep  with  me. 


To-night  I  have  left  my  sunless  home 

To  visit  the  cool  forest  stream, 
And  lull  them  in  an  anguished  dream ; 
But  when  the  oeck*s  shrill  clarion  blows. 
They  'U  wake  from  bliss  to  worldly  woes.** 

His  wild  melody  charmed  to  silence  his  companions,  who  had  for 
a  while  followed  tiim  with  shout  and  uproar ;  and  the  loathsome 
toad,  the  newt,  and  the  snake  crept  forth  to  listen,  as  if  enamoured 
of  that  old  man's  music.  Night  had  not  closed  in  ere  they  reached 
a  half  ruined  castle,  standing  in  the  depths  of  the  dark  pine-forest ; 
and  around  it  there  reigned  a  stillness,  glooipy  and  indescribable. 
No  ring-dove  cooed  in  the  branches  of  the  tall  pme ;  no  woodpecker 
tapped  on  the  decaying  oak ;  no  sauirrel  sprang  from  bough  to 
bough,  or  peeped  curiously  forth  at' the  passers-by.  £ven  the  trees 
that  grew  near  the  castle  walls,  or  stretched  their  broad  arms  over 
the  ruined  fragments  that  lay  scattered  around,  soughed  not,  nei- 
ther did  a  leaf  rustle  in  the  evening  breeze ;  it  seemad  as  if  nature 
herself  lay  bound  and  buried  in  a  death-like  silence. 

The  wayfarers  approached,  but  no  beaten  track  gave  signs  of  any 
inhabitant ;  and  the  old  man  laughed,  as  he  led  tibem  on,  singing, 

*<  Sweep  we  along  like  the  cool  nittht  wind, 
And  leave  nor  record  nor  trace  behind.*' 

And  thus  they  sullenlv  followed  him  through  bush  and  bramble  to 
the  castle  gate,  which  harshly  screeched  and  ffrated  on  its  rusty 
hinges,  yielding  not  an  entrance  but  to  the  united  force  of  the  newly 
arrived  guests.  The  same  aspect  of  desolateness  prevailed  through- 
out; rank  grass,  nettles,  and  thistles  had  overgrown  the  ample 
court-yard,  through  which  they  waded  up  to  their  hips  ere  they 
could  reach  the  halL  But  no  watch-dog  barked — no  warder  blew 
his  horn ;  neither  guard,  nor  serf,  nor  human  beinff,  save  themselves, 
were  to  be  seen ;  nought  was  heard  save  the  sounds  they  awakened, 
and  the  dark  grey  walls,  dusky  ruin,  and  lonesome  desolation  of  that 
twilight  hour,  called  forth  in  most  of  them  a  feeling  of  dread  till 
then  utterly  unknown. 

Thev  could  not  refrain  from  expressing  to  their  leader  the  sur- 
prise they  felt  at  the  forlorn  condition  of  &e  castle ;  but  he  assured 
them,  that,  although  its  exterior  was  somewhat  uninviting,  they 
would  find  within  all  that  they  could  desire ;  that  attendants  would 
shortly  arrive,  and  dancing  and  feasting,  mirth  and  merriment,  sur- 


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AND   HIS  GUESTS.  211 

round  them.  ''You  must  not/'  said  he,  ''however,  be  impatient, 
neither  scan  with  too  critical  an  eye  this  fortress  of  my  master ;  it 
has  been  long  without  inhabitant,  hence  its  desolate  appearance ; 
and  the  owner  has  so  many  strongholds  in  Italy,  Spain,  and  Austria, 
which  require  his  constant  supervision,  that  he  must  be  excused  if 
his  possessions  in  this  country  are  not  exactly  in  such  a  state  of  re- 
pair as  he  could  wish." 

His  words,  and  above  all,  his  promise  of  good  cheer  having  thus 
reinspired  them  to  proceed,  he  led  them  towards  an  old  wmding 
staircased ;  own  its  broken  steps  they  descended  into  a  damp  and 
mouldy  vault,  whose  dull  echoes  gave  back  in  deadened  sounds  the 
heavy  irregular  tread  of  those  who  entered  it. 

As  if  by  magic,  torches  now  crackled,  flickered,  and  blazed  from 
the  iron  rings  by  which  they  were  secured  to  the  walls,  and  dis- 
closed a  spacious  apartment  all  brilliantly  lighted  up.  In  the  midst 
stood  several  long  and  massive  tables  of  oak,  and  on  either  side  rows 
of  mighty  tuns,  full  of  the  most  delicious  wines,  the  age  of  which 
their  moss-bedecked  staves  and  rusty  iron  hoops  proclaimed  dis- 
tinctly enough,  as  soon  as  the  newly-arrived  guests  could  recover 
their  powers  of  vision  sufficiently  to  observe  objects  of  so  interest- 
ing a  description.  But,  although  they  perceived  it  not,  above  them 
on  harping  pinion  swept  the  bat ;  and  the  hairy  vampire  spread  his 
broad  flight  in  restless  circles  around ;  and  other  sights  and  sounds 
there  were,  alike  fearful  and  ominous,  but  their  eyes  were  darkened, 
and  they  perceived  them  not. 

Suddenly  the  voice  of  the  old  man  was  heard  at  a  distance,  in  un- 
wonted tones. 

"  Up,  messenger !  haste — quick  as  light — 
And  an  my  former  guests  invite. 
Up !  and  hiss  to  the  skulls  and  bones 
That  mouldering  lie  beneath  the  stones  ; 
Bid  skin  and  muscle  clothe  onoe  more 
Their  skeletons,  as  heretofore : 
Give  lips  and  cheeks  thdr  liying  red : 
Oiye  back  the  yoice  to  tongues  long  dead : 
See  they  don  their  best  array, 
Aud,  deck'd  as  for  a  holiday, 
Bid  them  to  the  feast  repair, — 
Haste  I  my  wishes  quick  dedare  !** 

Shortly  there  appeared  men,  women,  youths,  and  maidens,  in 
every  diversity  of  dress  and  form,  who,  thronging  in,  took  their 
places  at  the  tables,  or  served  up  dishes  laden  with  viands  and  fruit; 
while  Oray-coat  ran  about  here  and  there,  busily  arranging  the  va- 
rious courses,  or  serving  out  goblets  of  sparkling  wine.  The  raven- 
ous appetites  of  the  troopers  knew  no  bounds :  fearfully  did  they 
devour  at  that  fatal  festival,  and  their  hearts  began  to  grow  merry, 
as  they  poured  the  pearling  liquor  in  full  streams  dovm  their  thirsty 
throats.  Then  they  observed  the  maidens  ogling  them  in  a  manner 
both  familiar  and  inviting.  Female  singers  also  approached,  with 
lyre  and  organ,  and  harped  and  sang  songs  of  ribaldry  and  lewd- 
ness. Clowns  and  tumblers  went  through  their  various  evolutions ; 
and  gay  forms  danced  before  their  delighted  eyes,  till  Arnoldi  and 
his  companions  fancied  themselves  transported  into  the  regions  of 
faerie  land ;  nor  was  it  before  one  had  sharply  pinched  his  own  le^, 
another  his  nose,  and  the  remainder  each  for  himself  made  expen- 

VOL.  XXIII.  Q 


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212  THB   OLD  MAN 

ments  eaually  conYincing,  that  they  could  be  assured  what  they  saw 
around  tneni  was  no  dream. 

Thus  did  matters  proceed  till  kte  in  the  niffht  They  feasted, 
ihey  drank>  they  dallied,  and  made  love ;  littfe  Oray«coal  all  the 
while  skipping  about  from  table  to  table,  now  smiling  and  rubbing 
his  hands,  as  if  in  the  highest  glee ;  now  nodding  encoura|^ngly  to 
his  guests,  or  pressing  blandly  upon  their  attention  his  various  sup- 

Slies.  Thev  remarked,  however,  that  he  ate  not  with  them,  neither 
id  he  drink  of  their  wine;  that  the  other  guests  satsti£9y  and  for- 
mally, scarcely  laughed  at  the  fun,  tasted  but  little,  and  spoke  still 
less.  But  the  harp  and  organ  played  on ;  the  singers  trolled  their 
lavs,  and  the  various  attencUmts  flew  about  with  the  speed  of  the 
wind,  to  supply  them  according  to  their  heart's  desire ;  and  they 
spoke  togetner  of  the  old  man's  promise  as  they  approached  the 
ruined  castle,  that  if  they  would  only  enter  they  should  want  for 
nothing:  and  of  the  way  in  which  he  had  fulfilled  it ;  of  the  hope 
thus  afforded  for  the  future ;  and  they  drank  long  life,  again  and 
again,  to  the  lord  of  the  castle  and  their  new  entertainer. 

All  at  once  the  shrill  crowing  of  a  cock  was  heard  to  ring  through 
the  numerous  arches  of  the  vault,  in  sounds  that  pierced  above  all 
the  mirth  and  music  A  sudden  stroke  as  of  lameness  appeared  to 
seize  with  one  accord  the  attendants,  who  no  longer  proceeded  with 
their  usual  alacrity ;  nor  were  the  guests  exempt  from  its  effects, 
save  only  Oray-coat  and  the  troopers. 

After  a  time  he  drew  towards  the  benches  they  occupied,  placed 
himself  on  a  stool  opposite,  and  steadily  fixing  his  eyes  upon  his 
newly-enlisted  friends,  whose  bosoms  the  supematurd  sound  they 
had  just  heard  had  filled  with  something  like  apprehension,  said :  — 
"  Hark  ye,  my  masters ;  the  watchman  has  already,  as  ye  hear,  pro- 
claimed the  approach  of  morning,  and  when  his  voice  is  uttered, 
once  more  all  must  retire  to  rest.  We  of  the  dead,  ye  see,  must 
hold  strictly  to  order."  His  companions  started  and  gazed  on  each 
other.  ''  Yes,''  continued  he,  "  our  time  is  measured  to  us,  in  limits 
we  dare  not  transgress ;  but  for  ye—" 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  the  listeners  laughing  in  his  face. 
"  Little  Oray-coat,"  said  they,  **  is  making  fun  of  us,  or  has  looked 
too  deeply  into  his  beaker,  and  now  sorely  drunken,  knows  no  more 
what  he  is  saying."  But  hU  bright  eye  and  clear  voice  told  a  dif- 
ferent story ;  and  that,  whatever  the  effect  of  the  debauch  upon 
themselves,  it  had  passed  him  harmlessly  by. 

He  heeded  not  tneir  jesting,  but  quietly  replied,  *^  Listen  awhile 
to  me,  my  merry  birds,  and  then  laugh  on,  if  laugh  ye  still  dare." 


GRAY-COAT'S  STORY. 
**  It  is  now  many  a  long  year  since  I  became  cellar-keeper  in  this 
castle,  which,  under  the  careful  superintendence  I  bestowed  upon  it, 
never  wanted  a  good  supply.  Under  such  circumstances  I  forgot 
not  myself,  but  took  each  day  my  quantum  as  the  innocent  debt 
and  dutv  of  every  good  cellarmen,  wno  by  frequent  triab  can  alone 
qualify  himself  to  become  a  judge  of  that  which  is  under  his  charge. 
Indeed,  my  sense  of  duty  in  this  particular  moved  me  so  strongly, 
that  my  search  for  wine  suitable  to  my  master's  taste,  commenced 
at  break  of  day,  and  ceased  not  till  the  return  of  night  again  called 


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AND  HIS  GUESTS,  213 

to  repose.  Thus  was  my  reputatdoti,  in  one  respect^  soon  establish, 
ed ;  but,  though  a  good  cellar-keeper,  I  became  a  bad  Christian, 
and,  in  the  heedlessness  of  excessive  indulgence,  I  lost  the  relish  for 
higher  and  better  occupation,  and  neglected  the  welfare  of  that  part 
of  man's  being  which  is  destined  to  live  longer  than  sun,  and  moon, 
and  stars  endure."  (Amoldi's  comrades  winked  at  him  in  sleepy 
derision  of  the  speaker,  but  their  companion's  countenance  exhi- 
bited no  sign  of  participation.)  '^  The  proprietor  of  this  castle, 
whom  I  then  served,  led  a  roystering  life  of  it,  and  loved  to  wash 
down  many  a  hard  joke  with  good  old  liquor.  In  every  carouse  I 
was  his  constant  companion,  and  the  night  was  never  too  long  for 
as ;  neither  thought  we  of  anything  beyond  the  indulgence  of  the 
passing  hour.     We  were  the  talk  of  the  country  round. 

^'  We  had  commenced  one  such  drinking  bout,  on  holy  Thurs- 
day. Upon  this  occasion  we  swore  not  to  cease  till  one  or  other  of 
us  was  fimrly  under  the  table.  We  sat  together  till  the  next  morn- 
ing was  come,  but  it  ceased  not  then.  The  matins  had  long  been 
fimshed— the  vespers  sung — and  night  still  saw  us  there.  The  early 
dawn  arrived  ana  neither  had  given  way.  At  this  time  the  knight's 
little  son  lay  dangerously  ill,  and  his  lady  had  sent  to  him  many  a 
messenger  to  summon  him  to  the  bedside  of  his  dying  child,  but  he 
heeded  them  not.  At  length  came  her  waiting- woman,  and  on  her 
bended  knees  besought  him  in  tears  to  visit  her  mistress,  as  the  in- 
fant was  at  that  moment  in  the  agonies  of  death !  He  then  reluct- 
antly arose  and  staggered  s^r  her  to  the  apartments  of  his  wife, 
who,  as  soon  as  he  approached,  met  him  with  agonising  criesi  hold- 
ing in  her  arms  the  dead  body  of  his  only  child.  The  lady  shortly 
died  also,  and  from  that  moment  my  master  never  knew  peace ; 
night  and  day  did  he  wander  about  with  the  face  of  a  dreamer ;  he 
laughed  not,  neither  did  he  speak,  but  seemed  as  under  the  influence 
of  a  sorcerer's  spell ;  and  when  at  length  he  suddenly  disappeared, 
it  was  said  he  had  assumed  the  friar's  cowl,  and  closed  a  life  of 
severe  penance  in  the  Franciscan  monastery  of  Nuremberg.  But," 
added  he  significantly,  "  no  one  but  myself  knew — tvhUher  he  was 
gone. 

"  I  took  no  heed,  however,  of  this,  or  any  other  example ;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  set  at  nought  both  warning  and  reproof.  After  a  few 
^ears  I  lay  on  my  deaAbed ;  but  still  carried  my  passion  so  far  as  to 
inquire  of  my  lady's  confessor  if  there  was  wine  in  heaven.  He  was 
sOoAt  'If  not,'  I  continued,  'I  have  no  wish  to  go  thither  ;  but, 
living  or  dead,  should  prefer  occupying  this  place  with  such  com- 
panions as  I  could  obtain.'  With  these  words  in  my  mouth,  I  died, 
—died  without  absolution  or  shriil,  and  my  body  was  buried  in  the 
castle-chapel.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  awoke  from  a 
confused  and  fearful  dream,  and  I  stood  alone  here ;  an  awful  voice 
thundered  in  my  ears  my  doom.  My  wish  was  granted — a  penance 
till  time  shall  be  no  longer. 

''  From  year  to  year  have  I  sat  in  these  gloomy  vaults,— from  year 
to  year  drank  I  deeply,  and  alone,  tormented  by  the  most  dreadful 
sense  of  weariness  and  distress.  At  first  I  thought  not  to  regret  my 
wish ;  but,  when  after  a  while  the  castle  echoed  no  more  to  the  tread 
of  human  footsteps,  when  every  living  thing  forsook  these  ruined 
walls,  how  have  I  long^  for  the  quiet  repose  of  the  grave  1  But, 
though  I  sought  it,  it  repelled  me,  and  agam  and  again  I  found  my- 


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214  THE  OLD   MAN 

self  irresistibly  urged  hither.  At  length  I  bethought  ne  of  the  se- 
cond part  of  my  wish,  and  wandered  in  quest  of  companions.  I 
found  myself  empowered  to  allure  all  whom  I  met  within  a  given 
circle  of  my  allotted  abode.  My  power,  however,  only  extends  to 
those  whose  consciences  are  perverted,  seared,  or  dead;  or  who 
have  sold  themselves  to  work  the  works  of  him  whose  behests  I 
serve.  The  wants  and  desires  of  these  are  immediately  known  to 
me ;  nor  can  they  resist  the  spells  I  am  enabled  to  cast  around  them. 
When  such  a  one,  who  has  ever  been  my  guest,  dies,  he  is  after  death 
still  in  my  power,  and,  whensoever  I  invite  him,  must  appear  at  that 
midniffht  hour  when  spirits  can  walk  abroad.  All  with  whom  ye  have 
feasted  were  of  that  number  ;  and  ye,  though  for  the  present  ye  de- 
part, yet,  having  feasted  at  my  table,  and  taken  the  earnest  which 
pledges  you  to  the  master  yourselves  have  named,  shortU/  must  ye  all 
opp^r  hither  again" 

The  foot-soldiers  laughed  a  shuddering  laugh,  and  would  fain 
have  replied ;  but  their  senses  seemed  to  forsake  them,  their  eyelids 
involuntarily  closed,  and,  notwithstanding  all  their  efforts,  none 
could  keep  awake ;  their  heads  bowed  upon  their  breasts ;  they  slum- 
bered and  slept,  and  sunk  to  the  ground. 

And  again  the  cock  crew, — ^the  viands  disappeared, — the  torches 
on  the  walls  glimmered  faintiy,  and  expired, — ^the  guests  vanished 
noiselesslv,  and  when  all  had  departed  save  Gh^y-coat  and  the 
sleepers,  he  ^entiy  approached  them,  and  waving  above  their  h^s 
the  solitary  light  he  bore,  he  said,  with  a  ghastly  smile  of  exulta- 
tion,— 

^  In  yoar  charm'd  state  repose — 

Magic  sleep  your  eyelids  dose, — 

Sleep  beneath  the  dusky  Tell, 

All  night  bng  till  stars  grow  pale  ; — 
Slero  upon  your  cold  damp  bed, 

Nor  wake  till  the  light 

Of  the  sunbeam  bright 
Shall  pierce  through  the  ruins  OTtt>  your  head. 

'<  Ere  fourteen  springs  their  blossoms  shed. 
All  shall  mingle  wUh  the  dead— 
In  other  guise  we  11  meet  again, 
And  ye  shall  swell  my  shadowy  train- 
Till  then,  farewell ! 

Auf  Wiedersehen  I 
Now  sweep  I  hence  with  the  matin  wind, 
And  leare  no  record  nor  trace  behind  !  ** 

With  tiiese  words  he  glided  away,  and  cast  neither  sound  nor 
shadow  behind  him. 


THE   AWAKING. 

Twas  broad  morning  when  these  sleepers  awoke,  and  they  looked 
round  by  the  dim  light  which  found  its  way  through  the  crevices  of 
the  damp  and  broken  vault  It  was  impossible  eiUier  to  doubt  or  to 
recollect  distincUy  the  events  of  the  preceding  night;  and  they  rub- 
bed their  brows,  as  though  they  would  dear  both  sight  and  memorv 
of  some  terrible  impression.  As  they  regarded  one  another,  each 
was  startied  at  the  pale,  death-like  countenances  of  his  companions, 
and  all  were  inclined  to  lay  the  blame  on  their  late  resting-place. 


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AND  HIS   GUESTS.  216 

*'  That,"  said  Arnoldi^ "  will  quickly  pass  away,  if  we  can  but  find 
some  wine  to  restore  our  lost  roses/'  and  seizing  one  of  the  lances 
that  stood  in  the  comer,  he  violently  struck  the  table  till  the  old 
vault  rang  again ;  but  no  one  came.  He  and  his  myrmidons  called 
aloud  at  the  foot  of  the  broken  staircase.  As  their  impatience  in- 
creased, they  shouted,  and  yelled  like  so  many  wild-beasts ;  but  in 
vain.  None  answered  their  summons.  They  then  bethought  them 
of  the  casks ;  but  here  again  disappointment  and  mockery  awaited 
them,— -all  sounded- hollow  and  empty. 

''  If  the  devil  himself  be.  the  owner  of  this  accursed  place,"  said 
they,  '*  Gray-coat  is  surely  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood."  They 
therefore  sought  him  through  every  nook  and  comer  of  the  build- 
ing ;  but  found  nothing  save  rubbisn  and  ruin.  All  was  still  and  de- 
solate, and  lonely  as  before.  No  living  thing  did  thev  see ;  not  a 
sound  did  they  hear,  but  that  which  their  own  footfall  had  awaken- 
ed. Then  remembered  they  the  impression  of  the  preceding  even- 
ing as  they  approached  these  gloomy  precincts,  and  the  same  feeling 
of  awe  again  crept  over  them;  their  imaginations  were  haunted 
with  all  lunds  of  strange  and  fearful  objects  and  forebodings  ;  par- 
ticularly when  they  called  to  mind  Gray-coat's  story,  and  their  own 
threatened  doom. 

^*  It  can  be  no  dream,"  said  they,  *'  else  how  came  we  hither  ?— - 
and,  tme— how  can  it  be  ?" 

TTie  whole  affair  was  mysterious,  bewildering,  and  perplexing  in 
the  highest  degree.  All  at  once  they  recollected  the  earnest-money, 
and  fdt  in  their  pockets ;  but,  to  their  astonishment  and  distress,  in- 
stead of  broad  pieces  of  shining  gold,  they  drew  out  only  handfulsof 
dry  leaves.  Their  rage  now  knew  no  bounds ;  they  loudly  cursed 
both  Gray-coat  and  each  other,  till,  frightened  at  the  deep  echoes, 
which  gave  so  sullenly  back  the  sounds  they  had  called  forth,  they 
rushed  in  terror  from  the  haunted  spot.  They  essayed  in  vain  to  re- 
turn by  the  way  they  had  come.  Neither  track,  nor  tree,  nor  aught 
could  they  find  by  which  to  direct  their  erring  footsteps.  Farther 
and  farther  did  they  wander  from  their  intended  route,  and  lay  down 
at  night  in  the  depth  of  that  lonesome  forest,  calling  upon  Gray-coat 
aMin  to  appear,  in  order  to  be  revenged  for  the  freak  he  had  played 
them ;  but  they  saw  him  no  more !  Slowly  and  sadly  did  they  pur- 
sue their  journey  in  the  dawn  of  the  following  day,  and  soon  after 
found  exercise  for  their  lances  in  the  disturbances  which  filled  the 
country,  and  hastened  on  the  great  religious  war  which  deluged 
Germany  with  blood. 

To  this  day  the  old  ruined  castle  may  be  seen  in  the  forest  It  is 
called  '^  Waldreuth ;"  Uiough  the  peasant  folk  for  many  a  mile  round 
know  it  only  by  the  name  of  "The  Devil's  Country  Seat,"  and  none 
of  them  will  approach  it,  even  to  gather  sticks,  in  the  winter. 

Of  the  foot-soldiers  thus  much  further  has  been  ascertained,  that 
all  of  them  within  tlie  first  seven  years  died  by  sword,  pistol,  or  the 
hands  of  the  executioner,  except  Araoldi,  whose  death  took  place  at 
Prague,  exactly  fourteen  years  from  the  event  we  have  related.  He 
died  suddenly  during  a  deep  carouse,  after  the  victory  on  the  White 
Mountain,  the  self-same  day,  and  at  about  the  same  hour,  as  that  on 
which  Gray-coat's  feast  took  place.  The  fact  of  his  body  having 
been  found  enveloped  in  a  charmed  garment  clearly  accounted  for 


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216 


THE  TWO    PIGS. 


his  hardihood  amidst  the  various  perils  he  encountered^  and  at  the 
same  time  evinced  that  from  whatever  evils  and  dangers,  whether 
mortal  or  spiritual,  such  a  spell  could  protect  the  wearer,  spirit*  of 
wine  were  not  in  the  category.  One  of  his  later  comrades,  to  whom 
his  secrets  became  so  far  known,  stripped  him  of  the  now  useless  ap- 
pendage, and  wore  it  till  the  end  of  nis  days  in  the  cloister  at  ***• 
where  a  full  account  of  its  miracles  is  said  to  be  preserved ;  and 
npon  whose  abbot  he  enjoined  its  delivery  (after  his  death)  to  the 
brother  of  Arnold!.  In  his  family  it  has  been  religiously  preserved 
through  succeeding  generations. 


THE  TWO  PIGS^A  SWINISH  COLLOQUY. 


BY   W.  B.  BUBTON. 


''And  is  it  there  ye  are?  "  said  a  long-legged,  long-sided,  long- 
snouted  pig,  whose  gaunt  appearance  bespoke  his  Milesian  origin, 
while  the  rich  musical  twang  of  his  grunt  told  of  Tipperary  intirely. 
He  addressed  himself  to  a  compact  brindled  animiu  with  a  crisp 
twist  in  his  wool,  and  a  tightly-curled  tail,  who  was  couchant  in  a 
deep  kennel  near  one  of  the  Market  street  corners  in  Philadelphia. 

Irish  Pig.  Ah,  then,  the  tip-top  o'  the  morning  to  you  intirely. 
Its  myself  that 's  seen  ye  here  before,  and  mighty  snug  ye  are  in  that 


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THE  TWO   PIGS.  217 

akme  pTace^I  'm  thinking  that  a  dray- wheel  would  move  ye  out  o' 
that  in  a  pig's  whisper,  though  its  mighty  pi^-turesque  yere  lookin' 
that  jon^lution  of  slush,  any  how. 

Curfy'tail  Pig,  rising,  with  an  aristocratic  air.  Do  not  imagine, 
because  I  decline  reposing  any  longer  in  the  slimy  softness  of  this 
balmy  kennel,  that  your  euttur-al  gruntings  annoy  me.  PhUosophv 
has  long  ago  taught  me  that  we  cannot  make  a  sow's  ear  out  of  a  silk 
purse.  For  the  present,  then,  I  forgive  your  impertinence !  but  I 
MDj^gDorate  my  promise  to  make  sausages  of  your  intestines  if  you 
ever  bore  me  again  with  your  p^-my  prittle  prattle. 

Irish  Pig,  Give  us  none  o'  yer  cheek.  Edad,  ye  're  as  fierce  as  a 
jofT- wester.  Sure  I  roused  ye  out  o'  that  in  regard  o'  the  drays,  but 
if  my  xofv-licitude  is  hurtin'  yer  chitterlings,  why  be  smashed  into  a 
hoe's-pudding,  and  see  if  its  myself  that  will  interfere.  Arrah,  then, 
and  did  ye  see  anything  o'  them  niggers  of  hog-catchers  last  night  ? 

Curly-tail,  I  really  was  so  engaged  in  paying  my  devoirs  to  a 
delicate  young  creature  up  Sixth,  that  I  had  no  Ume  to  indulge  in 
such  vulgar  ideas. 

Irish  Pig,  Och,  get  out !  is  it  the  black  piggeen  up  the  alley 
convanient  to  the  bakehouse  ?  The  darlint  I  Don't  i  know  her, 
I  'd  like  to  cany  her  a  j9tg-a-back  over  the  whole  world. 

Curly^taxL  She  is  an  exquisite  charmer,  'pon  honour ;  but  as 
proud  as  she  is  pretty.  I  stole  a  cantaloupe  from  the  comer  there, 
and  placed  it  at  her  feet,  as  a  «oir-ve-neer  of  my  esteem,  but  she 
turned  it  over  to  that  old  hog  her  papa,  who  devoured  it  before  my 
face.  Laughing  at  my  melancholy  look,  she  said,  *^  Pork,  you  pine," 
which  you  must  own  was  very  pointed.  I  haven't  been  so  hurt 
since  my  lamented  mama  committed  fon^-i-cide  by  cutting  her  throat 
with  her  thumb-nails  while  trying  to  swim  across  a  creek. 

Irish  Pig,  And  ain't  her  brother  a  saucy  shote?  he'll  bebringin' 
his  h(^8  to  a  fine  market  some  day.  But  what  can  you  expect  from 
nigger's  pigs?  them  swine  swill  such  slush,  one  can't  pig  with  them 
if  he  wants  to  keep  a  dacent  cheek. 

Curly-tail,  You  are  as  dull  as  a  pig  of  lead  in  your  perception  of 
the  beautiful.  She  has  the  whitest  hand  of  pork  and  the  prettiest 
fore-quarter  I  have  ever  seen.  Her  hams  are  plump  and  well- 
shaped. 

Irish  Pig,    Wid  as  swate  a  snout  as  ever  turned  over  a  tater. 

Curly^tail,  If  she  would  Siamese  our  fates,  I  have  a  nice  sty  in 
my  eye ;  ai^^l  I  flatter  myself  she'd  find  me  as  warm  a  boar  as  ever 
hung  round  a  lady's  neck.  But  I  am  not  such  a  Piggy^ninny  as  to 
play  upon  one  stnng.  I  've  more  sweethearts  than  her,  if  I  want  to 
choose  a  spare  rib,  and  she  refuses  me  her  foot. 

Irish  Pi^,  Honamondioul !  don't  stand  there  wid  yer  snout 
cocked  up  m  the  wind,  but  come  over  here,  and  have  a  chaw  at 
them  swate  taters  and  an  inyon  or  two,  what  the  darkey  girl  has 
jest  chucked  out.  Here 's  a  beautiful  post  right  agin  yer  stam,  for 
an  illegant  scratch  bechuxt  bites.  Am't  them  squashed  peaches 
colluptuous  ? 

Curly-taiL  Nice,  really.  But  talking  of  luxuries,  did  you  ever 
taste  a  nigger  baby  ? 

Irish  Pig.  Ah,  then,  I  niver  had  a  chance ;  but  I  nibbled  ofi*  a 
black  man's  thumb  once,  as  he  was  tryin'  to  insinnervate  a  pet  kitten 
out  o'  my  gills ;  but  its  mighty  old  he  was,  and  the  jynt  was  hardly 


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218  THE  TWO   PIGS. 

a  Uste— to  say  nothing  o'  the  kick  I  got  on  my  hind  line.  Sure  it 
was  hard  times  in  them  snows  last  winter,  when  the  divil  a  bit  o' 
grub  ye'd  find  in  a  day's  grubbing.  Oh,  thunder  and  turf,  wasn't  I 
almighty  sharp  set  ?  them  frosts  mz  ferocious. 

Curly-iail.  And  to  freeze  our  souls  we  daily  expected,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  war,  that  we  should  all  be  killed  and  salted  down  as 
ship-meat  for  Uie  sailors. 


Irish  Pig.    All  pigged  together  in  a  hogshead. 
Curly-tail.    I  should  not  be  lot" 


Curly-tatl.  I  should  not  be  loth  to  afford  my  share  of  sustenance 
to  the  sinews  of  the  war,  as  I  am  heroically  inclined,  being  lineally 
descended  from  the  boar  of  the  Plantaganet — the  crest,  you  know, 
of  the  gallant  Richard  the  Third. 

Irish  Pig.    To  be  sure  I  do.    Didn't  B ,  the  great  tragedy 

man,  pig  idongside  o'  me  in  a  gutter  one  night,  when  he  was  Mdty, 
or  fresh,  I  dunno'  which  they  call  it.  Sure  he  talked  all  night  of 
that  same  bloody  and  devouring  boar,  which  I  thought  mighty  per- 
sonal, in  regard  o'  the  company  he  was  in.  But  for  them  haythens, 
sure  I  'd  like  to  seen  them  whipped.  There 's  a  Spanish  pug  in  the 
alley  forenenst  the  tebakky-store,  that 's  bitten  all  sorts  of  letters 
of  mark  on  my  hind- quarters,  the  blackguard. 

Curly'tail.  Ah,  my  friend,  philosophy  has  long  ago  taught  me 
that  pigs  are  not  arbiters  of  their  own  fate. 

Irish  Pig,  Though  pugs  are  biters  of  our  fat,  and  be  hanged  to 
'em.  But  the  whole  bihn'  of  our  family  is  going  west  in  the  spring, 
where  I  'm  sure  to  be  skivered  and  salted  down.  My  brawn  is  sar« 
tin  to  be  collared  then.  So,  if  I  can  but  preserve  myself  till  I  'm 
pickled,  I  '11  be  able  to  save  my  bacon,  any  how. 

Curlj^taiL  Well,  good  morning,  stranger ;  I  must  pay  my  morn- 
ing's call,  a  slight  offering  at  the  shrine  of  beauty— an  attempt  to 
em-broil  the  heart  of  that  tender  little  sow. 

Irish  Pig.  Good  luck  to  ye,  and  a  stiffer  curl  t'  yer  tail,  if  pos- 
sible, which  it  aint.  Och,  the  omadhawn !  to  have  his  eye  on  my 
own  delicate  piggeen !  I  *11  put  a  sow-thistle  into  his  piggin  of 
hogwash.  See  at  him!  how  consated  he  walks,  the  thief  of  the 
world !  Sure,  he  thinks  himself  a  whole  ship-load  of  the  primest 
mess.  No.  1,  but  it's  a  pretty  piece  of  pork  and  greens  I  '11  make  of 
that  same  shote,  big  pig  as  he  is.  By  the  piper  that  played  before 
Moses,  but  there's  the  hog-catchers,  the  slaughterin'  divils.  How 
they  skeet  after  my  friend  wid  the  curly  tail.  Och,  ^ere  's  a  porker 
in  a  pucker.  £dad,  but  he  moves  his  trotters  in  double  quick  time. 
Run,  ye  divil,  the  high  nigger  has  ye  by  the  tail  1  no,  he 's  off  again, 
bad  luck  to  him.  Sure,  that  pace  will  melt  his  lard,  this  same  hot 
day.  Grabbed,  by  jakers  !  Its  a  gone  case  wid  him,  any  how,  for 
into  the  cart  he  goes,  the  entire  swine.  Why,  they  are  shillooin' 
arter  me,  the  murtherin'  thieves !  Hurrish !  no  catchee,  no  havee. 
Here  goes,  a  bolt  for  life  ! 

[^Esit  Pig,  "  down  all  manner  of  streets." 


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219 


THE  LATE  ISAAC  DISRAELI,  ESQ.,  AND  THE 
GENIUS  OF  JUDAISM. 

BT    W.    O.    TAYLOB,     LL,  V. 
WITH  A  POBTBAIT. 

Jbbusalem  and  Venice  are  names  seldom  associated ;  they  are  types 
of  ideas  which  seem  incapable  of  harmonious  combination ;  they  raise 
historical  associations  so  different  in  character  and  colouring  that  the 
proprieties  would  seem  to  be  ontraged  when  they  blend  into  a  common 
picture,  and  inconsistency  rendered  inevitable  when  they  are  the  joint 
spells  which  direct  the  workings  of  an  individual  mind.  That  the  com- 
bination is  possible  has  been  proved  in  the  instance  of  the  Disraelis, 
both  father  and  son ;  that  the  junction  in  spite  of  some  few  incongruities 
has  been  delightful  and  valuable  is  demonstrated  by  the  warmth  of  appre- 
ciation almost  unanimously  accorded  to  the  historical  researches  of  the 
former,  and  the  gorgeous  imaginings  and  vivid  creations  of  the  latter* 
Different  as  have  been  their  ^Miths  of  literature  and  their  walks  of  life, 
there  has  been  in  both  a  common  element  which  almost  unconsciously 
moulded  their  character  and  predestined  their  career,  and  that  element 
was  compounded  of  a  reverence  amounting  to  enthusiasm  for  the  theo- 
cracy of  Judah  and  the  oligarchy  of  Venice. 

Descended  from  a  line  of  Jewish  merchants  who  had  dwelt  in  the 
"  Home  of  the  Ocean  "  during  the  proud  days  when  Venice  remained, 
at  least  in  name,  the  queen  of  the  Adriatic,  the  father  of  the  late  Mr. 
Isaac  D'Israeli  brought  with  him  to  England  a  store  of  historical  asso* 
ciations  and  tracUtions  meet  nurture  for  ''  a  poetic  child,''  and  equally  cal- 
culated to  incite  the  imaginative  to  realise  their  conceptions  in  romantic 
fiction,  and  the  inquisitive  to  ascertain  their  realities  by  sober  investi- 
gation. About  the  time  that  the  first  D'Israeli  settled  in  England,  the 
country  was  convulsed  by  one  of  those  popular  alarms,  the  result  of 
combined  fraud  and  fanaticism  which  appear  like  periodical  visitations 
in  our  history.  A  law  for  the  naturalization  of  the  Jews  had  been 
passed  with  little  opposition  by  both  houses  of  parliament,  and  had 
received  the  ready  support  of  the  most  distinguished  prelates  on  the 
episcopal  bench.  An  alarm  for  the  church  and  for  religion  was  how- 
ever produced  among  the  inferior  clergy,  and  principally,  as  Wal- 
pole  assures  us,  among  the  **  country  parsons."  The  alarm  was  as 
senseless  and  the  cry  as  ab9urd  as  on  the  occasion  of  Dr.  Sache- 
vereirs  trial,  when  a  very  stupid  and  very  malevolent  sermon  was 
sufficient  to  set  the  whole  country  in  a  flame.  It  was  proclaimed 
from  countless  pulpits  that,  if  the  Jews  were  naturalised  in  Britain,  the 
country  became  liable  to  the  curses  pronounced  by  prophecy  against 
Jerusalem  and  the  Holy  Land.  The  logic  of  this  argument  is  of  course 
as  defective  as  its  charity,  but  the  multitude  is  liable  to  be  deluded  by 
confident  and  repeated  assertion ;  it  also  happened  that  at  the  time  sus- 
picions were  entertained  of  hostile  designs  from  France,  and  though  the 
Jews  could  not  be  associated  with  the  French  by  any  show  of  reason, 
they  were  linked  to  the  enemy  by  a  very  tolerable  rhyme.  Every  dead 
wall  in  the  kingdom  exhibited  in  varied  orthography  tfaei^electable 
couplet.  No  Jews, 

No  wooden  shoes. 

YOL.   XXIII.  B 

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220  THE   LATE  ISAAC   d'iSRAELT,  ESQ. 

When  the  younger  D'Israeli  dilated  in  '<  Coningsby  "  on  the  advan- 
tages of  a  goad  cry,  he  might  with  some  reason  have  shewn  the  efficacy 
of  a  very  bad  one. 

Some  of  the  bishops  adopted  towards  their  insubordinate  curates  the 
same  course  that  indiscreet  parents  employ  to  lull  the  tumults  of  the 
nursery  when  they  proffer  cakes  as  a  bribe  to  stop  crying.  They  re- 
solved that  it  would  be  wise  to  make  some  concessions  to  clamour,  and 
they  joined  in  a  representation  to  the  minister  which  set  forth  that  they 
by  no  means  vouched  for  the  truth  of  the  popular  calumnies  directed 
against  the  Jews,  that  they  had  not  even  examined  the  evidence  on  which 
such  tales  of  scandal  were  founded,  but  that  believing  the  recent  law  to  be 
offensive  and  alarming  to  many  of  your  good  sort  of  people,  they  recom- 
mended the  premier  to  undo  his  own  act,  and  to  repeal  the  obnoxious  law 
as  early  as  possible.  The  Duke  of  Newcastle,  who  then  held  the  office  of 
prime  minister,  had  none  of  the  firmness  of  Sir  Robert  Peel  or  Lord 
John  Russell,  he  yielded  to  the  clamour,  partly  from  natural  timidity, 
and  partly  because  being  raised  at  the  close  of  a  Parliament,  he  was 
afraid  of  its  effects  at  a  general  election. 

Recent  events  having  revived  the  memory  of  this  curious  agitation, 
we  may,  at  the  risk  of  digression,  add  that  the  Bishop  of  Oxford  advo- 
cated the  repeal  not  on  account  of  any  scruples  of  his  own,  but  *'  to 
quiet  the  minds  of  good  people ; "  that  the  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph  denounced 
the  refusal  of  tlie  rights  of  citizenship  to  the  Jews  as  the  result  of  "  a 
spirit  of  persecution  abhorrent  from  the  spirit  of  the  Gospel ;"  and  that 
the  Duke  of  Bedford  who  had  voted  against  the  bill  originally,  very 
honorably  opposed  its  repeal,  which  he  called  *<  an  effect  of  the  imbecility 
of  the  adhninistration." 

Twelve  years  after  this  strange  exhibition  of  popular  delusion  and 
ministerial  weakness,  Isaac  D'Israeli  was  bom  at  Enfield  in  the  month 
of  May,  1766.  But  though  the  Jewish  Naturalization  Bill  had  been 
repealed,  the  passions  and  prejudices  to  which  it  gave  vigour  did  not 
subside  for  nearly  half  a  century ;  indeed  the  Jews  narrowly  escaped 
being  involved  with  the  Roman  Catholics  in  the  outrages  perpetrated  by 
the  Protestant  mob  of  Lord  George  Gordon.  The  accounts  which  he 
heard  in  childhood  of  the  calumnies  levelled  against  his  name  and  nation, 
and  of  the  political  disabilities  to  which  his  family  continued  subject 
because  an  imbecile  minister  had  neither  the  sense  nor  the  courage 
to  withstand  popular  delusion  and  popular  clamour,  produced  an  effect  on 
Mr.  D'Israeli's  mind  which  influenced  his  whole  literary  career,  and 
which  is  very  perceptible  in  the  writings  and  speeches  of  his  gifted  son. 
So  far  from  adopting  the  aphorism  vox  populi  vox  Deif  he  would  much 
sooner  have  said  vox  poptdi  vox  diaboli  ;  the  very  prevalence  of  any  senti- 
ment or  opinion  would  with  him  have  been  a  reason  for  viewing  it  with 
suspicion. 

All  the  traditions  of  his  race  and  all  the  reminiscences  of  his  family 
tended  to  strengthen  such  a  feeling.  The  people  had  no  voice  in  the 
Hebrew  commonwealth ;  law  was  dictated  to  them  by  the  inspired  pro- 
phet, the  consecrated  priest  or  the  anointed  king;  authority  was  not 
only  the  basis  of  their  social  order,  but  it  entered  into  the  minute  detail 
of  all  their  institutions ;  that  confession  of  faith  which  every  believing 
child  of  Abraham  learns  to  lisp  in  his  cradle  commences  with  a  divine 
demand  for  implicit  submission  and  obedience.  *<  Hear,  O  Israel  "  is  not 
the  beginning  of  a  creed  suited  to  the  partisans  of  a  democracy. 


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THE  LATE  ISAAC   D'ISRAEU,   ESQ*  221 

The  traditions  of  Venice  were  equally  calculated  to  alienate  Isaac 
Disraeli's  mind  from  the  parties  and  the  opinions  that  found  favour  with 
the  populace.  Aristotle  mentions  some  ancient  oligarchy,  the  members 
of  which,  on  admission  to  office,  bound  themselves  by  an  oath  to  do  all  the 
injury  to  the  democracy  in  their  power.  Although  the  senators  of 
Venice  did  not  swear  to  the  performance  of  any  such  obligation  they 
adopted  the  same  course  by  a  design  infinitely  more  binding  than  all 
the  tests  that  human  ingenuity  could  devise.  Their  first  principle 
of  government  was  that  a  mob  was  a  restrained  and  caged  tiger,  and 
that,  on  any  relaxation  of  these  checks  and  restraints,  the  animal 
would  spring  at  the  throats  of  his  keepers. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  how  general  and  how  infiuential  these  feelings 
were  at  the  close  of  the  last  century.  In  spite  of  the  proclamation  of 
**  Free  and  equal  rights  to  all  men/  by  the  republicans  of  France,  the 
Jews  throughout  Europe  almost  universally  adhered  to  the  cause  of 
monarchy  and  social  order.  If  they  were  not  absolutely  Tories  they  were 
at  least  very  strenuous  Conservatives ;  as  men  they  loved  "  liberty,**  but 
as  the  sons  of  a  privileged  race  they  suspected  *<  equality,"  and  as  a  pecu* 
liar  people  they  shrunk  from  **  fraternity."  Another  reason  for  this  was 
probably  the  horror  with  which  they  were  inspired  by  the  daring  blas- 
phemies of  the  atheists  of  France.  Revolting  as  these  excesses  were  to 
every  man  of  right  feeling,  they  filled  the  mind  of  the  Jew  with  a  horror 
perfectly  indescribable,  and  to  men  of  other  creeds  and  races  quite  incon- 
ceivable. For,  the  Jew  is  the  most  relig^ious  of  men;  to  him  the 
Supreme  Being  is  not  merely  the  Sovereign  of  the  universe,  but  also  and 
more  especially  the  Tutelary  Deity  of  his  race,  "  the  God  of  Abraham, 
of  Isaac,  and  of  Jacob."  The  insanity  which  would  dethrone  Jehovah^ 
the  God  of  Israel,  and  erect,  amid  drunken  and  frantic  orgies,  an  altar  to 
the  goddess  of  reason,  was  in  his  eyes  at  once  the  most  atrocious  of 
crimes  and  the  greatest  of  personal  insults.  Hence,  during  the  wars  of 
the  Coalition  against  revolutionary  France^  no  soldiers  fought  with  more 
desperate  energies  against  the  republican  armies  than  the  Jewish  regri- 
ments  in  the  service  of  P^ssia ;  no  moneyed  men  were  more  eager  to 
support  Pitt  by  subscribing  to  loans  than  the  Jewish  capitalists  of  Lon* 
don;  and  no  commercial  body  evinced  such  sympathy  for  the  fallen 
fortunes  of  Austria  as  the  Jewish  merchants  of  Germany.  These  pre- 
dilections for  monarchy  and  subordination  of  classes  are  still  characteristic 
of  the  race ;  in  the  recent  attempts  made  to  rdse  a  clamour  agamst  the 
Jews  of  Alsace,  we  find  more  than  one  pamphleteer  stigmatising  them 
as  inveterate  partisans  of  despotism  and  aristocracy. 

It  b  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  there  was  but  a  very  scant  share  of 
sympathy  between  the  French  and  the  Venetian  republics.  Indeed  they 
were  founded  on  such  antagonistic  principles  that  collision  was  inevitable 
whenever  they  were  brought  into  contact  Hence  Napoleon,  who  re> 
tained  many  of  his  old  principles  as  a  jacobin,  long  after  he  had  ceased 
to  be  a  republican,  never  spoke  of  the  Venetian  State  but  with  abhor- 
rence, and  the  only  part  of  the  proceedings  of  the  Congress  of  Vienna  on 
which  he  bestowed  approbation  was  the  decree  which  blotted  the  Vene- 
tian oligarchy  from  the  list  of  the  powers  of  Europe. 

The  philosophers  who  declare  that  '*  the  child  is  the  father  of  the 
man  "  do  not  mean  that  the  whole  of  a  man's  future  character,  conduct, 
and  career  are  predestined  and  predetermined  by  any  direct  system  of 
education ;  but  they  do  mean  that  the  appetencies  and  tendencies  of  his 

a  2 


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222  THE   LATE   ISAAC   p'iSRAELI,    ESQ. 

intellectual  faculties  are  irresistibly  moulded^  formed,  and  directed  bj 
the  atmosphere  of  moral  influence  which  surrounds  his  childhood.  It  is 
for  this  reason  that  we  have  endeavoured  to  trace  the  influences  most 
directly  operative  on  the  mind  of  the  principal  subject  of  this  essay,  that 
we  have  directed  attention  to  his  alienation  from  the  populace  on  account 
of  the  insult  and  injury  legislatively  inflicted  on  his  race  and  family,  a 
little  before  his  birth,  jfiy  a  reluctant  Ministry,  and  an  unwilling  Parlia- 
ment at  the  behest  of  senseless  mobs,  that  we  have  examined  the  results 
likely  to  be  produced  by  his  theocratic  creed  and  his  Venetian  descent 

D'Israeli,  we  are  informed,  received  the  greater  part  of  his  education 
at  Leyden.  He  seems  however  in  boyhood  to  have  read  a  pretty  extensive 
course  of  Hebrew  and  Rabbinical  literature ;  judging  merely  from  the 
internal  evidences  of  his  later  writings,  and  particularly  from  his  por- 
traiture of  Judaism,  a  work  of  singular  merit  which  has  fallen  into 
unaccountable  neglect,  we  should  say  that  he  was  a  diligent  student  of 
Maimouides,  Aben  Ezra,  Manasseh  Ben  Israel,  but  more  especially  of 
Moses  Mendelsohn.  Like  the  last-named  great  man,  whom,  perhaps 
unintentionally  he  seems  to  have  taken  for  his  model,  D'Israeli  chose  to  be 
purely  a  specuUtive  philosopher,  who  never  mingled  in  political  broils, 
and  who  shunned  all  connection  with  political  and  religious  parties. 
Hence,  when  he  visited  Paris  in  1786^  he  escaped  the  influence  of  those 
passions  which  had  been  roused  and  stimulated  by  the  revolution  then 
impending,  but  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  French  literature  with  a 
seal  and  ardour  which  continued  with  little  abatement  to  almost  the  last 
hour  of  his  life. 

At  no  period  of  his  life  was  D'Israeli  a  rabbinist  or  talmudist ;  a  large 
and  liberal  philosophy  raised  him  as  it  did  Mendelsohn  above  all  the 
exclusive,  intolerant,  and  anti-social  glosses  with  which  the  authors  of  the 
Mishna  and  Gemara  have  encumbered  and  distorted  the  Mosaic  legisla- 
tion. He  clung  to  the  principles  of  the  sublime  and  tolerant  prayer 
offered  by  Solomon  at  the  dedication  of  the  Temple,  and  if  he  ever  sought 
for  an  example  in  the  talmud,  he  selected  that  of  Rabbi  Meir.  The 
anecdote  to  which  we  allude  is  so  little  known  by  general  readers,  and  so 
illustrative  of  that  genius  of  Judaism  which  we  regard  as  the  predomi- 
nant characteristic  of  both  the  D'Israelis  that  we  shall  give  it  insertion. 

The  Talmud  informs  us  that  the  singular  learning  and  talents  of 
Rabbi  Meir  had  gathered  round  him  a  great  number  of  scholars,  whom 
be  instructed  in  the  law ;  but  he  nevertheless  visited  every  day  his  own 
former  teacher,  and  listened  to  his  instructions,  though  he  had  for  some 
time  been  stigmatized  as  a  heretic,  and  almost  regarded  as  an  apostate. 
Rabbi  Meir^s  pupils,  to  whom  their  professor  s  tolerant  spirit,  as  well 
as  his  habits  of  intercourse  with  one  whom  they  regarded  as  a  depraved 
person,  seemed  highly  pernicious,  angrily  remonstrated  with  him  on  such 
conduct  He  replied  with  one  of  those  shrewd  aphorisms,  which  a 
modem  critic  has  called  *'  the  diamonds  of  orientalism  :*' — '*  I  found  a 
savoury  nut,*'  said  the  rabbi ;  '*  I  kept  its  kernel,  and  I  threw  away  its 
shell" 

But  this  tolerance  was  not  confined  merely  to  philosophic  opinion. 
Isaac  D'Israeli,  from  the  very  commencement  of  his  career,  was  a 
zealous  advocate  for  every  philanthropic  plan  by  which  the  sufferings  of 
humanity  could  be  averted  or  alleviated.  He  adhered  rigidly  to  those 
genuine  principles  of  charity  which  are  thus  nobly  enunciated  by  Rabbi 
Moses  Ben  Mizraim  in  his  comment  on  the  First  Book  of  Kings : — 


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THE  LATE   ISAAC   D'ISRAELI,   ESQ.  223 

"  With  respect  to  the  Gc^m  (foreign  nations  or  Gentiles),  our  fathers 
have  commanded  us  to  vbit  their  sick  and  to  hury  their  dead  as  the 
dead  of  Israel,  and  to  relieve  and  maintain  their  poor  as  we  do  the  poor 
of  Israel,  hecause  of  the  ways  of  peace ;  as  it  is  written,  *  Elokim  (God) 
is  good  to  all,  and  his  tender  mercies  are  over  all  his  works.' " 
Psalm  cxlv.  9. 

It  is  certain  that  Isaac  D' Israeli,  though  his  parents  had  quitted 
the  Jewish  community^  took  a  lively  interest  in  the  question  of 
Jewish  emancipation;  hut,  save  in  the  ^< Portraiture  of  Judaism,**  we 
are  not  aware  of  his  having  written  directly  on  the  subject  We  know, 
however,  that  he  spumed  the  common  rabbinical  notion  of  a  sudden 
and  simultaneous  elevation  of  the  Jews  to  the  highest  rank  of  civiliza- 
tion and  refinement  He  believed  that  the  restoration  of  the  Jews  to 
the  rank  of  citizens  and  equal  subjects  would  be  accomplished  by  the 
gradual  spread  of  knowledge  and  intelligence ;  and  in  this  he  agrees 
with  the  ancient  talmudists,  whose  testimony  on  the  subject  is  too  sin* 
gular  to  be  omitted.  ^  The  final  redemption  of  Israel  will  be  effected 
gradually,  and  step  by  step  from  one  country  to  another,  in  tjie  four 
quarters  of  the  globe  through  which  the  Israelites  are  dispersed ;  and 
like  the  dawn  of  morning,  which  breaks  forth  gradually  and  by  degprees 
until  the  darkness  of  night  subsides  and  day  prevsuls,  and  even  then  a 
brief  space  must  elapse  before  the  sun  shines  forth  in  full  effulgence ; 
so  the  Israelites  will  slowly  retrieve  their  rank  among  the  people  and 
the  nations,  until  finally  the  sun  of  success  will  shine  upon  them.  This 
is  intimated  in  Bereshitk  (Genesis  xxxii.  24 — 31).  And  there  wresUeda 
man  with  him  until  the  breaking  of  the  day  ....  and  as  he  passed  aver 
Penuel  the  sun  shone  upon  him**  Forced,  no  doubt,  this  cabalistic  in- 
terpretation of  the  Scripture  is ;  nevertheless  the  beauty  and  excellence 
of  the  inference  deduced  cannot  be  questioned. 

So  early  as  his  sixteenth  year  Mr.  D'Israeli  commenced  his  honour* 
able  career  as  an  English  author  by  addressing  some  verses  to  Dr. 
Johnson,  whose  High  Church  and  Jacobite  notions  were  closely  in 
accordance  with  those  of  an  admirer  of  the  Hebrew  theocracy.  At  a 
later  period  he  published  the  oriental  tale  of  "  Mejnoun  and  Leila,"  the 
first  eastern  story  written  by  a  European  in  which  the  proprieties  of 
costume  and  manner  have  received  careful  attention.  It  is,  however, 
in  this  respect,  inferior  to  the  "  Wondrous  Tale  of  Alroy,"  the  most 
extraordinary  of  all  the  works  of  Disraeli  the  Younger,  for  in  this  not 
merely  the  conception  but  the  conceiving  mind  is  thoroughly  oriental : 
the  gigantic  imaginings,  the  gorgeous  colouring,  and  the  haughty 
assumption  of  superiority  for  a  chosen  race,  are  the  embodied  poetry 
of  all  the  dreams  of  Palestine  and  all  the  visions  of  Mecca. 

The  work,  however,  by  which  the  elder  {^'Israeli  will  always  be  best 
known,  because  it  is  the  work  which  has  made  the  deepest  impression 
on  the  mind  of  the  age,  is  the  ''  Curiosities  of  Literature."  It  was  the 
first  revelation  to  the  English  people  that  they  possessed  materials  for 
historical  and  critical  investigations  hardly  inferior  in  value  to  the  cele- 
brated Memoirs  of  the  French ;  and  it  was  also  one  of  the  earliest 
attempts  to  vindicate  the  memory  of  the  Stuarts,  but  more  especially  the 
first  James  and  the  first  Charles,  from  the  odium  which  had  been  accu- 
mulated upon  them  ever  since  the  revolution.  More  than  one  of  the 
Waverley  Novels  was  obviously  suggested  by  the  *'  Curiosities  of  Lite- 
rature;" and  to  that  work  our  mc^ern  writers  of  historical  romance 


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224  THE  LATE  ISAAC  D'iSRAELI,  ESQ. 

have  been  far  more  deeply  indebted  than  they  have  ever  yet  acknow- 


The  ^  Quarrels  of  Authors,**  the  *«  CalankieB  of  Aothorv,"  and  the 
**  Illustrations  of  the  Literary  Character,"  though  more  immediately  con- 
nected with  literary  historyi  are  everywhere  marked  with  the  character- 
istic feelings  and  sentiments  which  rendered  the  author  so  earnest  an 
advocate  and  so  zealous  a  pleader  for  the  hapless  house  of  Stuart  The 
descendant  of  a  fallen  race,  which  still  clung  to  its  theocratic  title,  was 
the  natural  sympathiser  with  a  fallen  dynasty,  which,  in  the  midst  of  all 
its  misfortunes,  never  abandoned  its  hereditary  claims. 

We  differ  entirely  from  Mr.  Disraeli's  estimate  of  the  Stuarts;  but 
we  shall  not  enter  into  any  argument  on  the  matter,  for  there  can  be 
no  rational  controversy  without  a  previous  determination  of  the 
standard  to  be  used  and  the  weights  and  measures  to  be  employed.  We 
should  require  on  our  weights  the  Tower  stamp,  while  Mr.  Disraeli 
would  use  none  which  had  not  the  impress  of  the  sanctuary. 

It  was  Disraeli's  review  of  Spence's  *<  Anecdotes*'  in  the  *'  Quarterly,** 
which  gave  rise  to  the  great  rope  controversy,  in  which  Mr.  Bowles, 
Lord  Byron,  Mr.  Campbell,  and  others  took  a  part.  The  reviewer's 
vindication  of  the  moral  and  poetical  character  of  Pope  evinces  great 
earnestness  and  conviction  :  he  writes  not  as  an  advocate  stating  a  case, 
but  as  a  warm-hearted  judge,  who,  having  carefully  investigated  all  the 
evidence,  has  unconsciously  become  a  partisan  while  summing  up  the 
case.  But  we  suspect  that  Pope  was  not  the  principal  person  in  the 
writer's  mind  while  preparing  this  article :  we  think  that  from  beginning 
to  end  he  was  mainly  intent  on  a  vindication  of  Bolingbroke,  that  mis- 
represented statesman  and  misapprehended  genius,  to  whom  the  younger 
D'Israeli  has  had  the  courage  to  do  justice.  Bayle  and  Bolingbroke 
have  been  especial  favourites  with  both  the  D'lsraelis ;  the  father  as  a 
scholar  clinging  closer  to  the  former,  the  latter  as  a  politician  dwelling 
more  emphatically  on  the  latter.  If  in  the  twelve  volumes  of  literary 
history  by  the  elder  Disraeli  we  find  Bayle's  multifarious  reading,  his 
philosophic  spirit  of  speculation,  his  contempt  for  merely  popular 
opinion,  and  a  very  appreciable  tendency  to  paradox;  so  in  the  younger 
we  find  the  ideal  of  Bolingbroke  more  or  less  pervading  the  heroes  of 
his  political  romances.  Vivian  Grey  is  a  Bolingbroke  in  those  early 
days  of  his  political  intrigues,  when,  with  a  boyish  spirit  of  malice,  he 
overturned  the  political  combinations  which  he  had  toiled  to  accom- 
plish, from  mere  caprice  or  from  sheer  love  of  mischief ;  and  Coning^by 
is  what  Bolingbroke  would  have  been  had  he  set  himself  up  as  a  patriot 
minister  for  his  own  ideality  of  a  patriot  king. 

Now  this  admiration  of  Bolingbroke  arises  chiefly,  but  not  wholly, 
from  the  Venetian  cast  of  t^  character  of  that  statesman.  Bolingbroke 
was  essentiallv  the  statesman  of  an  oligarchy ;  an  admirable  manager  of 
a  party,  but  the  worst  possible  leader  of  a  people.  It  may  seem  incon- 
sbtent  to  speak  of  the  theocratic  element  in  the  mind  of  a  reputed 
infidel ;  and  yet  the  High  Church  sentiments  of  Bolingbroke  cannot  be 
questioned.  This,  however,  is  a  subject  on  which  we  must  not  at  present 
dilate ,  it  is  too  large,  and  too  important  to  be  treated  of  incidentally. 

The  late  Mr.  D'Israeli  was  one  of  the  few  men  who  lived  exclusively 
for  literature.  Early  placed  in  a  position  of  independence,  which 
rendered  it  unnecessary  for  him  to  adopt  the  commercial  pursuits 
of  his  father,  he  indulged  his  taste,  or  rather  his  passion,  for  curious 


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THE   LATB   ISAAC   D'ISRAELI,   ESQ.  225 

research,  and  never  was  satisfied  in  the  investigation  of  any  question 
until  he  had  examined  the  original  authorities.  His  writings  and  ex- 
ample have  diffused  a  taste  for  historical  inquiry  and  criticism,  which  has 
heoome,  to  a  g^reat  extent,  the  prevalent  characteristic  of  our  age.  In 
1841  he  was  stricken  with  hlindness,  and  though  he  suhmitted  to  an 
operation,  his  sight  was  not  restored.  He,  the  great  American  writer, 
Prescott,  and  Thierry,  the  author  of  the  **  Hbtory  of  the  Conquest  of 
England  hy  the  Normans,  (who  has  published  several  considerable  works 
since  his  blindness,)  are  probably  the  only  hbtorical  authors  who  have 
continued  their  labours  in  spite  of  so  terrible  a  calamity.  Aided  by 
bis  daughter,  he  produced  the  <<  Amenities  of  Literature,*'  and  com- 
pleted the  revision  of  his  great  work  on  the  Reign  of  Charles  I.,  which, 
on  its  first  publication,  had  procured  for  him  the  degree  of  D.C.L. 
from  the  University  of  Oxford. 

A  cultivated  and  powerful  memory  enabled  him,  in  the  later  years  of 
his  life,  to  pour  forth  the  stores  he  had  accumulated  in  his  long  and 
varied  studies  with  a  profusion  as  delightful  as  it  was  surprising.  '^  The 
blind  old  man  eloquent"  was  a  description  as  applicable  to  him  as  to  the 
bard  of  Scio.  He  felt  that  he  had  left  an  impress  on  his  age  and 
country ;  that  he  had  enforced  a  more  scrupulous  attention  to  accuracy 
on  its  historians,  and  a  more  careful  observance  of  character  and  cos- 
tume on  its  writers  of  fiction.  The  dangers  with  which  his  favourite 
ideas  of  theocracy  and  nobility  had  been  menaced  by  the  wild  theories 
to  which  the  French  Revolution  gave  birth^  had  long  faded  from 
his  view,  and  he  could  look  forward  to  a  redemption  of  Israel  conse- 
quent on  a  general  advancement  of  enlightened  principle  and  philo> 
sophic  intelligence.  His  work  was  done;  the  great  ideas  which  it  had 
been  his  mission  to  develop  were  now  unfolded  more  brilliantly,  though 
perhaps  not  more  efficaciously,  by  his  son ;  the  object  of  his  dearest 
affections  was  become  the  expounder  of  his  most  cheri&hed  sentiments,  and 
more  than  the  supporter  of  his  dearly-earned  fame.  His  own  fame  was 
thus  enshrined  in  his  son's  reputation,  and  no  one  could  hereafler  name 
either  D'Israeli  without  feeling  that  as  the  one  worthily  led  so  the  other 
worthily  succeeded. 

The  death  of  Mr.  D'Israeli  took  place  in  the  eighty-second  year  of  his 
age,  at  his  country  seat,  Bradenham  House,  in  Buckinghamshire,  Janu- 
ary 1 9th,  1 848.  He  died  a  widower,  having  lost  his  wife,  to  whom  he 
had  been  united  for  more  than  forty  years,  in  the  spring  of  1847.  One 
daughter  and  three  sons  survive  him :  his  eldest  son,  the  member  for 
Buckinghamshire,  is  too  well  known  wherever  the  English  language  is 
spoken  for  us  to  say  one  word  respecting  his  claims  to  celebrity. 


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226 
A  PIPE  WITH  THE  DUTCHMEN. 

BY  J.   MARVEL. 

THE   UPPER  ELBE. — THE    LOWER   ELBE. — TRAVELLING  COMPAKIOKB.^ 
HAMBURG. — RIDE   TO  BREMEN. 

Old  Prague  is  left  behind.  Its  quaint  houses,  its  garnet  jewels,  its 
coloured  glass,  its  house  of  Tycho  Brahe  —  firom  which  you  looked 
over  the  battle-field — ^glorious  in  the  rays  of  sunset,  are  dimmed  to 
memory,  by  the  fresher  recollections  (Heaven  grant  they  be  always 
fresh  I)  of  that  beautiful  river,  on  wiiich  you  glided  down  to  the 
pleasant  Capitol  of  Saxony. 

In  Europe,  or  our  own  country,  I  have  nowhere  seen  richer  river 
scenery  than  that  along  the  Elbe,  in  its  progress  through  Saxon  Swit- 
zerland :  if  a  comparison  is  to  be  made, — it  is  only  less  rich  in  asso- 
ciation than  the  Rhine,  and  only  less  beautiful  than  the  Hudson. 

Undines,  young  and  fair,  inhabit  its  waters,  and  fisibulous  giants 
stride  over  from  bank  to  banL  And  gray,  giant  rocks  pile  up  by  its 
shores,  hundreds  of  feet  into  the  air.  At  their  foot,  a  little  debris 
sloping  to  the  water  is  covered  with  forest  trees ;  and  upon  the  small, 
level  summits  are  straggling  firs.  Between  these  isolated  towers,  you 
sometimes  get  glimpses  of  undulating  country,  backed  by  a  blue  pile 
of  mountains.  At  other  times,  these  towers  are  joined  by  a  rocky 
wall — not  so  smooth^  but  wilder  than  the  palisades,  and  far  more  fear* 
ful  to  look  on — ^for  you  sail  close  under  the  threatening  crag,  and  the 
dark  tree-fringe  at  the  top  shuts  off  the  light,  and  you  know  that  if 
one  of  the  loosened  fragments  were  to  fall,  it  would  crush  the  Kttle 
steamer  you  are  upon. 

Now  you  are  free  of  the  frowning  terrors  of  the  cliff,  and  go  gliding 
down,  straight  upon  a  grassy  knoll  that  stretches,  or  seems  to  stretch, 
right  athwart  the  stream.  Nearer  and  nearer  you  go,  until  you  can 
see  plainly  the  bottom,  and  the  grass  growing  down  into  the  water; 
and  while  you  are  looking  upon  the  pretty  pebbled  bed  of  the  river, 
the  boat,  Hke  a  frightened  duck,  shies  away  from  the  grassy  shore, 
and  quickens  her  speed,  and  shoots  back  to  the  shelter  of  the  brown 
ramparts  again.  Directly  under  them,  not  seen  before,  though  you . 
thought  it  was  the  old  line  of  rampart,  a  white  village  nestles  among 
vines  and  fruit-trees;  and  you  pass  so  near  it,  that  you  can  see  the 
old  women  at  their  knitting  in  the  cottages,  and  hear  the  pleasant 
prattle  of  children. 

The  prattle  of  the  children  dies  away,  and  you  glide  into  forest 
silence  again.  No  sound  ^gw,  save  the  plashing  of  your  boat  in  the 
water,— or  the  faint  crash  of  a  fir-tree>  felled  by  some  mountain 
woodsman,  on  a  distant  height,-^or  the  voice  of  some  screaming  eagle, 
circling  round  the  pinnacled  rocks. 

Konmgstein,  the  virgin  fortress,  never  yet  taken  in  war,  throws  its 
shadow  black  as  ink  across  the  stream ;  and  as  you  glide  under  its 
overhanging  cliffs — looking  straight  up,  you  can  see  the  sentinel,  on 
the  highest  bastion,  standing  out  against  the  sky  —  no  bigger  than 
your  thumb. 

And  this  is  not  the  half,  that  one  can  see,  in  going  down  the  Elbe, 
from  Lcitmeritz  to  the  Saxon  capital. 


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A  PIPE  WITH  THE   DUTCHMEN.  227 

Dresden  too^  is  left  behind — a  beautiful  city.  It  remmds  one  who 
has  been  in  the  Scottish  Highlands  of  Perth.  The  mountains  of  the 
Saxon  Switzerland  take  the  place  of  the  blue  line  of  Grampians ; — 
the  valley  of  the  Elbe,  in  surface  and  cultivation,  brings  vividly  to 
mind  the  view  of  the  Scotch  valley,  from  the  heights  above  the  castle 
of  Kinfauns ; — and  just  such  a  long,  stone-arched  bridge  as  crosses 
the  "  silvery  Tay,"  may  be  seen  spanning  the  river  at  Dresden. 

It  made  me  very  sad  to  leave  Dresden.  It  has  just  that  sort  of 
quiet  beauty  that  makes  one  love  to  linger, — and  made  me  love  to 
linger,  though  Cameron  and  our  Italian  companion,  //  Mercante,  who 
had  joined  us  in  place  of  Le  Comte,  were  both  urging  on  toward  the 
Northern  capitals. 

So  we  left  the  Elbe,  and  for  a  long  month  saw  no  more  of  it. 

We  came  in  sight  of  it  again  at  Magdebourg — where,  if  the  old 
legends  are  true,  (and  I  dare  say  there  is  more  truth  in  them  than 
people  think,  if  they  would  but  get  at  the  bottom  of  the  matter)  there 
lived  in  the  river  a  whimsical  water-sprite.  She  was  pretty — for  she 
appeared  under  likeness  of  a  mischievous  girl, — and  used  to  come  up 
into  the  village  to  dance  with  the  inhabitants,  at  all  the  f^tes  ; — and 
she  wore  a  snow-white  dress  and  blue  turban,  and  had  a  prettier  foot 
and  more  languishing  eye,  than  any  maid  of  Magdebourg. 

The  result  was — i^  won  the  heart  of  a  youngster  of  the  town,  who 
followed  her  away  from  the  dance  to  the  river's  brink,  and  plunged  in 
with  her.  The  villagers  looked  to  see  them  appear  again ;  but  all 
they  saw,  was  a  gout  of  blood  floating  in  a  little  eddy  upon  the  top  of 
the  water. 

They  say  it  appears  every  year,  on  the  same  day  and  hour  ;* — we 
were,  unfortunately,  a  month  too  late ;  and  I  saw  nothing  in  the  river 
but  a  parcel  of  clumsy  barges — a  stout  washerwoman  or  two,  and  a 
very  ^ty  steamer,  on  board  which  I  was  going  down  to  Hamburg. 

Another  M  story  runs  thus : — 

A  young  man,  and  beautiful  maiden  of  Magdebourg,  were  long  time 
betrothed.  At  length,  when  the  nuptials  approached,  he  who  should 
have  been  the  bridegroom,  was  missing.  Search  was  made  every- 
where, and  he  was  not  to  be  found. 

A  famous  magician  was  consulted,  and  informed  the  bereaved 
friends,  that  the  missing  bridegroom  had  been  drawn  under  the  river 
by  the  Undine  of  the  Elbe. 

The  Undine  of  the  Elbe  would  not  give  him  up,  except  the  bride 
should  take  his  place.  To  this,  the  bride,  like  an  exemplary  woman, 
consented, — but  her  parents  did  not. 

The  friends  mourned  more  and  more,  and  called  upon  the  magician 
to  reveal  the  lost  man  again  to  their  view.  So  he  brought  them  to 
the  bank  of  the  river— our  steamer  was  lying  near  the  spot — and  ut- 
tered his  spells,  and  the  body  of  the  lost  one  floated  to  the  top,  with 
a  deep  red  gash  in  the  left  breast. 

It  seems  there  were  stupid,  inquiring  people  in  those  days,  who 
said  the  magician  had  murdered  the  poor  soul  of  a  lover,  and  used  his 
magic  to  cover  his  rascality  ;  but  fortunately  such  ridiculous  explan- 
;Uions  of  the  weird  power  of  the  Undine,  were  not  at  all  credited. 

*  Tadiiion  Orale  de  Magdebourg,  MM.  Grimm,  This,  and  the  following 
legend  will  remind  the  reeder  ci  Cerleton's  ballad  of  Sir  Turlough,  or  the  Church 
Yard  Bride  ;  and  also  of  Scott's  Okofinlas. 


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228  A   PIPE  WITH  THE  DUTCHMEN. 

I  should  think  the  Undine  had  now  and  then  a  dance  upon  the 
bottom  of  the  river ; — for  the  Elbe  is  the  muddiest  stream,  all  the 
way  from  Magdebourg  to  Hamburg,  that  I  ever  sailed  upon. 

I  should  say,  if  I  have  not  already  said  as  much,  that  half  the  ad- 
vantage of  European  travel,  consists  not  so  much  in  observation  oi 
customs  of  particular  cities  or  provinces,  as  in  contrast  and  compari- 
son of  different  habits, — characteristics  of  different  countries,  as  re- 
presented in  your  MXow-wyoffeurs^  on  all  the  great  routes  of  travel. 

You  may  see  Cockney  habit  in  London,  and  Parisian  habit  at  Paris, 
and  Danish  habit  at  Copenhagen,  and  Prussian  habit  at  Stettin,  and 
Italian  habit  at  Livoume ; — but  you  shall  see  them  all^  and  more,  con- 
trasted on  the  deck  of  the  little  steamer  that  goes  down  the  lower 
Elbe  to  Hamburg.  And  it  is  this  cosmopolitan  sort  of  observation, 
by  which  you  are  enabled  to  detect  whose  habit  is  more  distinctive 
in  character, — whose  habit  most  easily  blends  with  general  or  local 
habit,  that  will  give  one  an  opportunity  for  study  of  both  individual 
and  national  peculiarity — not  easily  found  elsewhere. 

The  Englishman  in  his  stiff  cravat,  you  will  find  in  all  that  regards 
dress,  manner,  companionship,  and  topic  of  conversation,  the  most 
distinctive  in  habit  of  all. 

He  cannot  wear  the  German  blouse,  or  the  French  sack ;  he  can- 
not assume  the  easy  manner  of  the  Parisian,  nor  the  significant  car- 
riage of  the  Italian.  In  choosing  his  companions,  he  avoids  the 
English,  because  they  are  countrymen,  and  every  one  else,  because 
they  are  not  English.  The  consequence  is,  if  he  does  not  cross  the 
channel  with  a  companion,  or  find  one  at  Paris,  he  is  very  apt  to  go 
through  the  country  without  one. 

Whatever  may  be  his  conversation,  its  foci  are  British  topics.  If 
he  discusses  the  hotel,  he  cannot  forbear  alluding  to  the  '<  Bell*'  at 
Gloucester,  or  the  ''Angel"  at  Liverpool ;  if  of  war,  it  is  of  Marlborough 
and  Wellesley.  He  seems  hardly  capable  of  entertaining  an  enlarged 
idea,  which  has  not  some  connection  with  England ;  and  he  would 
very  likely  think  it  most  extraordinary  that  a  clever  man  could  sus- 
tain  any  prolonged  conversation  without  a  similar  connection. 

The  Frenchman,  bustling  and  gracious,  is  distinctive  in  whatever 
regards  his  language  or  food,  and  also  in  some  measure^  in  topic 

He  would  be  astonished  to  find  a  man  in  Kamschatka  who  did  not 
speak  French ;  and  if  a  chattering  Undine  had  risen  above  the  sur- 
face of  the  Elbe,  our  little  French  traveller  would  not  have  been  half 
as  much  surprised  at  the  phenomenon  of  her  rising,  as  to  hear  her 
talking  German. 

He  is  never  satisfied  with  his  dinner ;  he  can  neither  eat  English 
beef,  nor  German  pies,  nor  Italian  oil.  ''Mon  Dieu!  quelle  mauvaise 
cuisine  I"  —  is  the  blessing  he  asks  at  every  meal ;  and  **  Mon  Dieu  ! 
c'est  fini.   J'en  suis  bien  aise," — are  the  thanks  he  returns. 

His  pdiUsse  will  induce  him  to  follow  whatever  topic  of  conversa- 
tion may  be  suggested ;  but  this  failing,  his  inexhaustible  resources, 
as  you  meet  him  on  travel^  are  Us  FemtMs  and  la  France. 

The  Russian,  if  he  has  only  been  in  a  civilized  country  long  enough 
to  shake  off  a  little  of  his  savage  manner,  is  far  less  distinctive  than 
either.  He  cares  little  how  he  dresses,  what  he  eats,  or  in  what  lan- 
guage he  talks.  In  Rome  you  would  take  him  for  an  Italian,  in  the 
diligence  for  a  Frenchman,  at  sea  for  an  Englishman,  and  in  trading 
only,  for  a  Russian. 

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A  PIPE  WITH  THE  DUTCHMEN.  229 

The  German,  setting  aside  his  beard  and  his  pipe  (which  last  is  not 
easily  set  aside)  is  also  little  distinctive  in  conversational  or  personal 
habit.  You  will  detect  him  easiest  at  table,  and  by  his  curious  ques- 
tionings. 

The  Italian  learns  easily  and  quickly  to  play  the  cosmopolite  in 
dress,  speech,  action^  and  in  conversation,  too — so  long  as  there  is  no 
mention  of  art*  Touch  only  this  source  of  his  passion,  and  he  reveals 
in  a  twinkling  his  southern  birth. 

The  American — and  here  I  hesitate  long,  knowing  that  mv  observ- 
ation will  be  submitted  to  the  test  of  a  more  rigorous  exammation-^ 
is  in  disposition  least  wedded  to  distinctiveness  of  all.  In  lack  of 
aptitude  he  betrays  himself.  His  travel  being  hasty,  and  not  often 
repeated,  he  has  not  that  cognizance  of  general  form  which  the  Rus- 
sian and  Italian  gain  by  their  frequent  journey ings. 

Nor  in  pomt  of  language  will  he  have  the  adaptiveness  of  the  Rus- 
sian, both  from  lack  of  familiarity  with  conversational  idiom,  and  lack 
of  that  facility  in  acquisition  which  seems  to  belong  peculiarly  to  the 
holders  of  the  Sclavonic  tongue. 

Again,  in  the  way  of  adaptation  to  European  life,  there  is  some- 
thing harder  yet  for  the  American  to  gain :  it  is  the  cool,  half-dis- 
tant, world-like  courtesy,  which  belongs  to  a  people  among  whom 
rank  obtains,  and  which  is  the  very  opposite  to  the  free,  open,  dare- 
devil, inconsiderate  manner  that  the  Westerner  brmgs  over  the  ocean 
with  him. 

Nor  is  the  American,  in  general,  so  close  an  observer  of  personal 
habit  as  the  European.  Those  things  naturally  attract  his  attention, 
to  which  he  is  most  unused ;  he  can  tell  you  of  the  dress  of  royalty, 
of  the  papal  robes,  and  of  the  modes  .at  an  imperial  ball;  but  of  the 
every-day  dress  and  m^ner  of  gentlemen,  and  their  after-dinner 
habit  and  topics,  he  may  perhaps  know  very  little. 

Still,  in  disposition  he  is  adaptive :  what  he  detects  he  adopts.  He 
is  not  obstmate  in  topic  or  dress  like  the  Englishman,  nor  wedded  to 
his  speech  or  his  dinner,  like  the  Frenchman.  He  slips  easily  into 
change.  In  England  he  dines  at  six,  on  roast  beef  and  ale.  At 
Paris,  he  takes  his  cqfi^  and  fricandeau^  and  vin  ordinaire^  and  thinks 
nothing  can  be  finer.  At  Rome  he  eats  maccaroni  a/  burroy  and  sets 
down  in  his  note-book  how  to  cook  it  At  Barcelona  he  chooses  ran- 
cid butter,  and  wonders  he  ever  loved  it  fresh  ;  and  on  the  Rhine  he 
takes  a  bit  of  the  boiled  meat,  a  bit  of  the  stew,  a  bit  of  the  tart,  a 
bit  of  the  roast,  a  bit  of  the  salad,  with  a  bottle  of  Hocheimer,  and 
the  memory  of  all  former  dinners  is  utterly  eclipsed. 

In  Vienna  he  will  wear  a  beard,  in  France  a  moustache,  in  Spain 
a  cloak,  and  in  England  a  white  cravat*  And  if  he  but  stay  long 
enough  to  cure  a  certain  native  extravagance  of  manner,  to  observe 
thoroughly  every-day  habit,  and  to  instruct  himself  in  the  idioms  of 
speech,  he  is  the  most  thorough  Worlds-man  of  any. 

It  has  occurred  to  me^  while  setting  down  these  observations^  that 
their  faithfulness  would  be  sustained  by  an  attentive  examination  of 
the  literary  habit  of  the  several  nations  of  which  I  have  spoken. 
Thus,  Russia,  careless  of  her  own  literature,  accepts  that  of  the  world. 
England,  tenacious  of  British  topic,  is  cautious  of  alliance  with  what 
ever  is  foreign. 

But  I  have  no  space  to  pursue  the  parallel  further.    The  curious 


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2S0  A  PIPE   WITH  THE  DUTCHMEN. 

reader  can  do  it  at  his  leuure,  while  I  go  back  to  our  floating  bateau 
on  the  Elbe. 

A  daj  and  a  night  we  were  floating  down  the  river.  The  banks 
were  low  and  sedgy, — not  worth  a  look.  A  chattering  little  French- 
roan  detailed  to  us  his  adventures  in  Russia.  A  clumsy  Englishman 
was  discoursing  with  a  Norwegian  merchant  upon  trade. 

It  was  the  sixteenth  day  of  June,  and  the  air  as  hot  as  hottest 
summer.  Night  came  in  with  a  glorious  sunset.  For  every  thing 
that  we  could  see  of  the  low  country  westward  was  gold-yellow ;  the 
long  sedge-leaves  waved  glittering,  as  if  they  had  been  dipped  in 
golden  light,  and  fields  following  fields  beyond  them.  And  eastward^ 
save  where  the  black  shadow  of  our  boat,  and  its  clouds  of  smoke, 
stretched  a  slanted  mile  over  the  flat  banks,  the  colour  of  grass,  and 
shrub,  and  everything  visible,  was.  golden, — golden  grain-fields,  and 
fields  far  beyond  them, — golden  and  golden  still, — till  the  colour 
blended  in  the  pale  violet  of  the  east — far  on  toward  northern  Poland ; 
the  pale  violet,  clear  of  clouds,  rolled  up  over  our  heads  into  a  purple 
dome.  By  and  bye,  the  dome  was  studded  with  stars ;  the  awning 
of  our  boat  was  furled,  and  we  lay  about  the  deck,  looking  out  upon 
the  dim,  shadowy  shore,  and  to  the  west,  where  the  red  light  lin^- 
gered. 

Morning  came  in  thick  fog;  but  the  shores,  when  we  could  see 
them,  were  better  cultivated,  and  farm-houses  made  their  appearance. 
Presently  Dutch  stacks  of  chimneys  threw  their  long  shadows  over 
the  water ;  and,  with  Peter  Parley's  old  story-book  in  my  mind,  I  saw 
the  first  storks'  nests.  The  long-legged  birds  were  lazing  about  the 
house-tops  in  the  sun,  or  picking  the  seeds  from  the  sedgy  grass  in 
the  meadow. 

The  Frenchman  had  talked  himself  quiet.  Two  or  three  Dutch- 
men were  whiffing  silently  and  earnestly  at  their  pipes,  in  the  bow  of 
the  boat,  looking-out  for  the  belfries  of  Hamburg.  To  relieve  the 
tedium,  I  thought  I  could  do  no  better  myself.  So  I  pulled  out  my 
pipe  that  had  borne  me  company  all  through  France  and  Italy  and 
begged  a  little  tobacco  and  a  light ; — it  was  my  first  pipe  with  the 
Dutchmen. 

Cameron  would  not  go  with  me  to  Bremen ;  so  I  lefl  him  at  Ham- 
burg—at dinner,  at  the  table  of  the  Kronprinzen  Charles,  on  the 
sunny  side  of  the  Jungfemstieg. 

I  could  have  stayed  at  Hamburg  myself.  It  is  a  queer  old 
city,  lying  just  where  the  £lbe>  coming  down  fVom  the  mountains  of 
Bohemiay  through  the  wild  gaps  of  Saxony  and  everlasting  plains  of 
Prussia,  pours  its  muddy  waters  into  a  long  arm  of  the  Mer  du  Nord. 

The  new  city,  built  over  the  ruins  of  the  fire,  is  elegant,  and  almost 
Paris-like ;  and  out  of  it  one  wanders,  before  he  is  aware,  into  the 
narrow  alleys  of  the  old  Dutch  gables.  And  blackened  cross-beams 
and  overlapping  roofs,  and  diamond  panes,  and  scores  of  smart  Dutch 
caps^  are  looking  down  on  him  as  he  wanders  entranced.  It  is  the 
strangest  contrast  of  cities  that  can  be  seen  in  Europe.  One  hour, 
you  are  in  a  world  that  has  an  old  age  of  centuries ; — pavements, 
sideways,  houses,  every  thing  old^  and  the  smoke  curling  in  an  old- 
fashioned  way  out  of  monstrous  chimney-stacks,  into  the  murky  sky: 
— five  minutes'  walk  will  bring  you  from  the  midst  of  this  into  a  region 
where  all  is  shockingly  new : — Parisian  shops^  with  Parisian  plate-glass 


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A  PIPE  WITH  THE  DUTCHMEN.  231 

in  the  windows— Parisian  shopkeepers,  with  Parisian  gold  in  the  till. 
The  contrast  was  tormenting.  Before  the  smooth-cut  shops  that  are 
ranged  around  the  basin  of  the  Alster,  I  could  not  persuade  myself 
that  I  was  in  the  quaint  old  Hanse  town  of  Jew  brokers,  and  storks' 
nests^  that  I  had  come  to  see ;  or  when  I  wandered  upon  the  quays 
that  are  lined  up  and  down  with  such  true  Dutch-looking  houses,  it 
seemed  to  roe  that  I  was  out  of  all  reach  of  the  splendid  hotel  of  the 
Crown  Prince,  and  the  prim  porter  who  sports  his  livery  at  the  door» 
The  change  was  as  quick  and  unwelcome  as  that  from  pleasant  dreams 
to  the  realities  of  morning. 

Quaint  costumes  may  be  seen  all  over  Hamburg : — chiefest  among 
them,  are  the  short,  red  skirts  of  the  flower-girls,  and  the  broad- 
brimmed  hats,  with  no  crowns  at  all,  set  jauntily  on  one  side  a  bright, 
snoooth  mesh  of  dark  brown  hair,  from  which  braided  tails  go  down 
half  to  their  feet  behind.  The^ — the  girls — ^wear  a  basket  hung  co- 
quetUshly  on  one  arm,  and  with  the  other  will  offer  you  roses,  from 
the  gardens  that  look  down  on  the  Alster,  with  an  air  that  is  so  sure 
oi  success,  one  is  ashamed  to  disappoint  it. 

Strange  and  solemn-looking  mourners  in  black,  with  white  ru£9es 
and  short  swords,  follow  coffins  through  the  streets;  and  at  times, 
when  the  dead  man  has  been  renowned,  one  of  them  with  a  long 
trumpet  robed  in  black,  is  perched  in  the  belfry  of  St.  Michael's, — the 
highest  oi  Hamburg, — to  blow  a  dirge.  Shrilly  it  peals  over  the 
peaked  gables,  and  mingles  with  the  mists  that  rise  over  the  meadows 
of  Heligoland.  The  drosky-men  stop,  to  let  the  prim  mourners  go 
by ;— the  flower-girls  draw  back  into  the  shadows  of  the  street,  and 
cross  themselves,  and  for  one  little  moment  look  thoughtful; — the 
burghers  take  off  their  hats  as  the  black  pall  goes  dismally  on.  The 
dirge  dies  in  the  tower ;  and  for  twelve  hours  the  body  rests  in  the 
sepulchral  chapel,  with  a  light  burning  at  the  head,  and  another  at 
the  feet. 

There  would  be  feasting  for  a  commercial  eye  in  the  old  Hanse 
houses  of  Hamburg  trade.  There  are  piles  of  folios  marked  by  cen- 
turies, instead  of  years — correspondences  in  which  grandsons  have 
grown  old,  and  bequeathed  letters  to  grandchildren.  As  likely  as  not, 
the  same  smoke-browned  office  is  tenanted  by  the  same  respectable- 
looking  groups  of  desks,  and  long-legged  stools  that  adorned  it,  when 
Frederic  was  storming  the  South  kingdoms — and  the  same  tall  Dutch 
clock  may  be  ticking  in  the  comer,  that  has  ticked  off  three  or  four  , 
generations  past,  and  that  is  now  busy  with  the  fiflh, — ticking  and 
ticking  on. 

I  dare  say  that  the  snuff-taking  book-keepers  wear  the  same  wigs, 
that  their  grandfathers  wore ;  and  as  for  the  snuff-boxes,  and  the  spec- 
tacles, there  is  not  a  doubt  but  they  have  come  down  with  the  ledgers 
and  the  day-books,  from  an  age  that  is  utterly  gone. 

I  was  fortunate  enough  to  have  made  a  Dresden  counsellor  my 
friend,  upon  the  little  boat  that  came  down  from  Magdebourg ;  and 
the  counsellor  took  ice  with  me  at  the  cafe  on  the  Jungfemstieg,  and 
chatted  with  me  at  table;  and  after  dinner,, kindly  took  me  to  see  an 
old  client  of  his,  of  whom  he  purchased  a  monkey,  and  two  stuffed 
birds.  Whether  the  old  lady,  his  client,  thought  me  charmed  by  her 
treasures,  I  do  not  know ;  though  I  stared  prodigiously  at  her  and  her 
counsellor ;  and  she  slipped  her  card  coyly  in  my  hand  at  going  out 


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2Sa  A  PIPE  WITH  THE  DUTCHMEN. 

and  has  expected  me,  I  doubt  not,  before  thi8»  to  buy  one  of  her  long* 
tailed  imps,  at  the  taucj  price  of  ten  louis-d'or. 

But  my  decision  was  made ;  my  bill  paid ;  the  drosky  at  the  door. 
I  promised  to  meet  Cameron  at  the  Oude  Doelen  at  Amsterdam,  and 
drove  off  for  the  steamer  for  Harbourg. 

I  never  quite  forgave  myself  for  leaving  Cameron  to  quarrel  out  the 
terms  with  the  val^^U-plaoe  at  the  Crown  Prince ;  for  which  I  must 
be  owing  him  still  one  shilling  and  sixpence ;  for  I  never  saw  him 
afterward,  and  long  before  this,  he  must  be  tramping  over  the  muirs 
of  Lanarkshire  in  the  blue  and  white  shooting-jacket  we  bought  on  the 
quay  at  Berlin. 

It  was  a  fite-day  at  Hamburg ;  and  the  steamer  that  went  over  to 
Harbourg  was  crowded  with  women  in  white.  I  was  quite  at  a  loss 
among  them,  in  my  sober  travelling  trim,  and  I  twisted  the  brim  of 
my  Roman  hat  over  and  over  agin,  to  give  it  an  air  of  gentility,  but  it 
would  not  do ;  and  the  only  acquaintance  I  could  make,  was  a  dirty- 
looking,  sandy-haired  small  man,  in  a  greasy  coat,  who  asked  me  in 
broken  English,  if  I  was  going  to  Bremen.  As  1  could  not  under- 
stand one  word  of  the  jargon  of  the  others  about  roe,  I  thought  it  best 
to  secure  the  acquaintance  of  even  so  unfavourable  a  specimen.  It 
proved  that  he  was  going  to  Bremen  too,  and  he  advised  me  to  go 
with  him  in  a  diligence  that  set  off  immediately  on  our  arrival  at 
Harbourg.  As  it  was  some  time  before  the  mail  carriage  would  leave, 
I  agreed  to  his  proposal. 

It  was  near  night  when  we  set  off,  and  never  did  I  pass  over  duller 
country,  in  duller  coach,  and  duller  company.  Nothing  but  wastes 
on  either  side,  half  covered  with  heather ;  and  when  cultivated  at  all, 
producing  only  a  light  crop  of  rye,  which  here  and  there  flaunted  its 
yeUow  heads  over  miles  of  country.  The  road,  too,  was  execrably 
paved  with  round  stones, — the  coach,  a  rattling,  crazy,  half-made  and 
half-decayed  diligence.  A  shoemaker's  boy  and  my  companion  of  the 
boat,  who  proved  a  Bremen  Jew,  were  with  me  on  the  back  seat,  and 
two  little  windows  were  at  each  side,  scarce  bigger  than  my  hand. 
Three  tobacco-chewing  Dutch  sailors  were  on  the  middle  seat,  who 
had  been  at  Bordeaux,  and  Jamaica,  and  the  Cape ;  and  in  front  was 
an  elderly  man  and  his  wife — the  most  quiet  of  all, — ^for  the  woman 
slept,  and  the  man  smoked. 

The  little  villages  passed,  were  poor,  but  not  dirty,  and  the  inns 
despicable  on  every  account  but  that  of  filth.  The  sailor^at  each, 
took  their  schnapps;  and  I,  at  intervals,  a  mug  of  beer  or  dish 
of  coffee. 

The  night  grew  upon  us  in  the  midst  of  dismal  landscape,  and 
the  sun  went  down  over  the  distant  rye-fields  like  a  sun  at  sea.  Nor 
was  it  without  its  glory : — the  old  man  who  smoked,  pulled  out  his 
pipe,  and  nudged  his  wife  in  the  ribs ;  and  the  sailors  laid  their  heads 
together.  The  sun  was  the  colour  of  blood,  with  a  strip  of  blue  cloud 
over  the  middle;  and  the  reflections  of  light  were  crimson — over  the 
waving  grain  tops,  and  over  the  sky,  and  over  the  heather  landscape. 

Two  hours  siler  it  wa3  dark,  and  we  tried  to  sleep.  The  shoe* 
maker  smelt  strong  of  his  bench,  and  the  Jew  of  his  old  clothes,  and 
the  sailors,  as  sailors  always  smell,  and  the  coach  was  shut  up,  and  it 
was  hard  work  to  sleep;  and  I  dare  say  it  was  but  little  after  mid- 
night when  I  gave  it  up,  and  looked  for  tlie  light  of  the  next  day. 


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233 


ANNE  BOLEYN  AND  SIR  THOMAS  WYATT. 

Thb  hour  of  midnight  had  just  passed  away,  when  four  women 
and  four  men,  singly  and  stealthily  crept  into  St.  Peter's  church, 
in  the  Tower.  When  there,  grouped  together,  one  explained  to 
the  rest  the  proposed  course  of  proceeding :  all  then  bent  their 
steps  to  the  same  point,  and  were  presently  engaged,  some  in  lifting 
up  a  huge  flag-stone  from  the  pavement,  others  in  spreading  a  very 
Iflurge  cloth  by  the  side  of  it ;  and,  two  wooden  shovels  being  pro- 
duced, two  of  the  men  proceeiled  instantly  to  throw  out  upon  it  the 
earth  from  a  newly-made  grave.  This  was  the  grave  of  Anne 
Boleyn,  whose  headless  body  had  been  rudely  and  hurriedly  thrown 
into  it,  only  twelve  hours  previously. 

In  fdl  possible  silence  the  men  worked,  and  with  no  other  light 
than  was  thrown  on  the  soil  by  a  small  dark-lantern,  most  carefully 
held;  but,  although  silently,  they  yet  worked  resolutely,  and  with 
great  vigour  and  dispatch  cast  forth  all  that  was  found  between  them 
and  the  object  of  their  search ;  which  was  an  old  elm^chest,  that  had 
been  used  for  keeping  the  soldiers'  arrows  in.  In  this  were  deposited 
the  remains  of  their  late  queen ;  and,  the  lid  being  removed,  the 
body,  which  had  on  the  scaffold  been  most  carefully  folded  in  a 
thick  winding-sheet,  was  then  lifted  out,  and  laid  on  a  large  black 
cloak.  The  lid  replaced,  and  the  earth,  with  great  caution  and  speed, 
being  again  thrown  in,  and  the  large  flag-stone  again  laid  down,  the 
party  hastened  to  the  church  door.  A  gentle  signal  from  within 
having  been  answered  by  the  opening  of  the  door  from  without,  and 
the  assurance  given  that  all  was  well, — ^that  no  one  was  stirring,  or 
in  sight,  the  whole  party  passed  hurriedly  away  with  their  burden 
into  a  house  near  at  hand.  Very  shortly  after  the  men  separately 
retired  to  their  respective  temporary  lodgings,  to  ponder  rather  upon 
their  plans  for  the  ensuing  aay,  than  to  reflect  upon  the  dangers 
they  had  incurred  in  their  proceedings. 

The  four  women,  to  whose  care  the  body  of  the  queen  had  been 
thus  confided,  were  the  four  faithful,  and  attached,  and  chivalrous 
maids  of  honour,  who  had  attended  upon  Anne  in  the  Tower,  and 
accompanied  her  to  the  scaflbld.  These,  when  her  head  was  severed 
from  the  body,  took  charge  of  both,  suffering  no  one  to  touch  them 
but  themselves,  and  having  wrapped  them  carefully  in  a  covering 
they  had  provided,  and  placed  them  in  the  old  chest,  which  had 
been  brought  thither  to  receive  them,  they  went  with  those  who 
were  appointed  to  bear  away  the  body  to  the  church,  and  did  not 
leave  it  till  they  saw  it  completely  enclosed  in  the  grave  which  had 
been  so  hastily  opened  to  admit  it. 

One  of  these  four  was  Mary  Wyatt,  and  one  of  the  four  men  was 
her  brother.  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  who  could  not  endure  the  thought 
that  one  whom  he  had  once  so  fondly  loved,  whom  he  had  al- 
ways admired  and  esteemed,  should  be  buried  like  a  dog,  and 
thrust  into  the  grave,  as  a  thing  dishonoured  and  despised ;  and, 
when  a  messenger  brought  him  word,  that  Anne,  but  a  moment 
before  she  knelt  down  on  the  block,  whispered  to  his  sister  to  im- 
plore her  brother  to  bear  ofl^,  if  possible,  her  remains  from  the  Tower, 
and  to  give  her  the  rites  of  Christian  burial  in  a  place  she  named,  he 


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2Si  ANNE   BOLEYN   AND   SIR  THOMAS  WYATT. 

determined  at  once  to  encounter  all  risks^  to  fulfil^  if  practicable^  her 
dying  request. 

There  was,  undoubtedly,  great  personal  danger  to  himself  in 
the  attempt.  He  had  ver^  narrowly  escaped  being  sent  a  prisoner 
to  the  Tower,  with  Norris,  Weston,  and  Brereton ;  and,  had  he 
accompanied  them,  he  would  undoubtedly  have  been  executed  toge« 
ther  with  them,  two  days  before.  He  knew  and  felt  this ;  and  that 
his  life  was  not  worth  a  week's  purchase. 

But  there  were  other  difficulties  to  contend  with,  and  other  con- 
siderations to  be  given  to  the  subject,  than  such  as  arose  from  any 
personal  dangers  to  himself.  Alone,  he  was  powerless.  Yet,  who 
would  be  his  confederates  in  a  scheme  that  threatened  the  loss  of  life 
to  all  engaged  in  it  ?  Who  would  enter  into  a  hostile  Tower,  well- 
garrisoned,  and  vigilantly  guarded,  and  brave  the  vengeance  of  a 
governor,  by  carrying  away  the  body  of  a  queen,  of  whose  person, 
whether  living  or  dead,  he  had  the  custody  ? — And  for  whose  sake 
was  all  this  risk  to  be  encountered  ?  The  poor  queen  could  give  no 
thanks :  her  friends  were  all  in  disgrace.  Wyatt  had  no  money,  and 
no  influence  or  authority ;  but  that  helped  him  which  has  helped 
so  many  others,  and  which  has  so  often  achieved  success  in  still 
more  perilous  enterprises — ^he  had  man's  love  for  woman  to  appeal 
to. 

Those  chivalric  maidens,  who  braved  without  fear  the  frowns  o£ 
their  king,  and  the  insulting  speeches  of  his  courtiers,  to  attend 
upon  their  unfortunate  and  maligned  queen  in  her  degradation 
and  distress,  were  not  likely  to  have  either  pusillanimous  lovers 
or  brothers ;  and  the  men  happened  to  be  in  this  case  worthy  of  the 
women.  They  entered  immediately  and  cordially  into  Wyatt's  plan, 
and  separately,  and  without  an  hour's  delay,  made  their  way  to  the 
Tower,  to  m^uce  enquiries  as  to  the  health  and  well-doing  of  their 
respective  favourites.  When  there,  various  reasons  were  found  for 
their  staying  during  the  night.  The  ladies  themselves  would  all  de- 
part the  next  dav,  and  the  assistance  of  such  friends  in  their  removal 
was  more  than  desirable. 

Besides,  other  circumstances  within  the  Tower  in  some  measure 
favoured  their  projects,  —  the  hurried  preparation  for  so  many  ex- 
ecutions within  the  walls  during  the  last  few  days,  —  the  arrival  of 
so  many  nobles  and  counsellors,  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  the  prisoners, 
— and  the  arrival  that  day  within  the  Tower  of  the  king's  brother, 
the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  the  king's  son,  the  Duke  of  Richmond,  and 
other  high  officers  of  state,  to  witness  Anne*s  execution, — and  their 
hurried  departure,  after  all  was  over,  with  their  numerous  retinue, 
deranged  the  usual  customary  duties  of  the  guard,  and  made  them 
less  inquisitive  than  they  would  otherwise  have  been,  as  to  the  per- 
sons they  admitted. 

In  addition  to  this,  all  the  pirisoners,  who  had  caused  all  this  ex- 
citement, had  been  disposed  of, — all  were  executed,  and,  moreover, 
buried.  There  was  no  one  remaining  within  the  Tower  cared  for 
by  any  one;  and  the  extreme  vigilance  of  the  constable.  Sir 
William  Kingston,  so  long  as  he  had  the  prisoners  in  charge,  and 
until  he  had  in  every  respect  obeyed  the  king's  stern  decrees  in 
respect  of  them  all,  made  him,  perhaps,  now  less  severe  in  his  regu-* 
lations  towards  the  few  unhappy  ladies,  their  friends,  who  would  be 
his  guests  only  a  few  hours  more  within  the  Tower  walls. 


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ANNE   BOLEYN   AND   SIR  THOMAS  WYATT.  235 

The  peculiarly  mournful  situation  of  these  ladies,  the  melancholy 
and  afflicting  scenes  they  had  so  lately  witnessed,  their  heroic  con- 
duct, and  their  deep  distress,  made  it  impossible  to  deny  to  them  the 
sympathy  and  visit  of  a  few  friends.  Mary  Wyatt,  in  her  deep  sor- 
row, might  well  be  supposed  to  need  a  brotner's  consolation,  and 
even,  in  her  forlorn  state,  a  brother's  protection.  This  gave  him, 
immediately  subsequent  to  the  execution,  an  amply  sufficient  reason 
for  visiting  his  sister  in  the  Tower;  and  he  soon  arranged  with 
Mary  all  the  details  of  his  enterprise ;  and  Mary  soon  secured  the 
hearty  co-operation  of  the  other  ladies,  who  were  but  too  well  pleased 
to  lend  their  aid  to  fulfil  the  last  expressed  wish  of  their  dying 
mistress. 

A  quiet  entrance  into  the  church  was  all  that  Sir  Thomas  then 
seemed  to  need  for  the  success  of  his  plans.  He  strolled  into  the 
church,  conversed  unreservedly,  and  with  as  much  composure  as  he 
could  assume,  with  the  sexton,  who  pointed  out  to  him  the  stones 
which  covered  the  bodies  respectively  of  Queen  Anne,  and  her  bro- 
ther. Lord  Rochford.  The  man,  it  appeared,  from  his  conversation, 
had  greatly  commiserated  the  fate  o£  the  unhappy  queen,  and  was 
shocked  at  the  heartless  manner  in  which  she  had  been  thrust  into  her 
srave,  without  any  attendant  priest  or  religious  service.  Sir  Thomas 
Wyatt  availed  himself  of  this  favourable  prepossession,  and  by  per- 
suasions of  various  kinds,  some  verbal,  some,  perhaps,  more  substan- 
tial, he  obtained  of  the  man  permission  to  enter  the  church  at  mid* 
night,  and  with  the  ladies  who  had  been  the  queen's  attendants,  to 
complete  her  funeral  obsequies  secretly  and  quietly,  as  they  best 
could. 

Of  course  the  sexton  never  knew,  nor  did  the  constable  of  the 
Tower  ever  dream,  of  the  masterly  manoeuvre  that  had  been  prac- 
tised against  them.  So  far,  however,  had  Sir  Thomas  succeeded, 
that  he  had  rescued  the  body  from  its  grave,  and  had  placed  it  in 
hands  that  would,  to  their  utmost,  protect  it.  The  next  step  was  to 
remove  it  beyond  the  Tower  walls. 

It  was  natural  enough,  that  from  the  excitement  and  distress  of 
the  preceding  day,  from  the  terror  and  grief  they  had  been  exposed 
to  in  the  actual  witnessing  on  the  scaffold  the  beheading  of  their 
lovely  queen,  that  the  ladies  should  be  more  or  less  ill,  and  that  one 
at  least  should  need  to  be  carried  to  her  litter,  from  illness  and  sheer 
exhaustion. 

When  the  hour  arrived  for  their  departure,  they  respectively  sent 
their  adieus  and  their  thanks  to  Sir  William  and  Lady  Kingston,  and 
a  litter  being  at  the  door,  three  of  the  ladies,  in  the  deepest  mourn- 
ing, entered  it ;  and  presently  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  and  another  gen- 
tleman appeared,  carrying  in  their  arms  a  lady,  who  seemed  but 
little  able  to  sup)>ort  herself.  She  also  was  in  mourning,  and  closely 
covered  up.  This  was  the  body  of  Anne.  Having  safely  deposited 
her  with  the  others,  the  whole  drove  away,  followed  by  the  other 
maid  of  honour,  disguised  as  one  of  the  attendants.  Quietly  and 
together  the  gentlemen  walked  through  the  Tower  gates,  beyond 
which  their  horses  awaited  them ;  mounting  these,  they  proceeded 
westward,  and,  were  soon  lost  sight  of  in  the  crooked  and  narrow 
street  which  led  directly  from  the  Tower  to  the  City. 

Twelve  days  had  passed  away,  when  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  rode  into 
the  court  of  Blickling  Hidl,  in  the  county  of  Norfolk,  accompanied 

VOL.   XXIII.  s 


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ANNE  BOLEYN   AND   SIB  THOKAS   WYATT. 

by  his  sister  Mary.  It  was  in  this  hM.  that  he  had  passed  many  of 
the  days  of  his  early  life,  a  companion  and  a  playfellow  to  the 
daughter  of  his  father's  friend.  Sir  Thomas  Boleyn ;  here,  when  a 
boy,  he  had  gamboUed,  and  walked,  and  gardened,  and  read  with 
the  sweet  litde  girl,  Anne  Boleyn.  Here,  as  children,  they  had  en- 
joyed together  many  of  the  hours  of  their  happier  years, — for  his 
father  and  her  father  being  for  a  time  coadjutor  governors  of  Nor- 
wich Castle,  the  families  frequently  visited  each  other.  Nor  did  the 
intimacy  cease  with  the  removal  of  the  Wyatts  to  Allington  Castle, 
in  Kent,  since  the  Boleyns  moved  also  into  that  county,  to  occupy 
not  altogether  exclusively,  but  very  frequently,  Hever  Castle. 

There  Wvatt  was  a  frequent  visitor,  and  with  his  increasing  years 
increased  his  attachment  to  the  fair  Anne,  the  playmate  of  his  child- 
hood. But,  it  was  at  Blickling  Hall  that  all  his  earlier  recollectiona 
of  the  Lady  Anne  were  associated ;  and,  as  he  rode  through  its  arch- 
way on  that  1st  of  June,  a  thousand  thoughts  rushed  through  his 
mind, — a  thousand  recollections  urged  themselves  on  his  memory, 
of  her  whom  he  had  once  fondly  hoped  to  make  his  bride, — whom 
he  had  since  seen  made  a  (jueen, — and  whose  headless  body  he  had 
so  lately  rescued  from  an  ignominious  grave. 

The  Earl  of  Wiltshire,  her  father,  had  two  days  before  arrived  at 
Blickling  to  receive  his  expected  guests.  None  else  were  there  but 
themselves.  It  was  a  time  of  mourning  and  sorrow  for  all, — a  time 
of  fear,  and  not  of  feasting.  Their  danger  was  still  great ;  their  de- 
tection was  still  possible.  One  indiscreet  step,  one  unguarded  word 
might  still  betray  them,  and  bring  down  the  fiercest  wrath  and  the 
most  certain  death  upon  them  all. 

The  motives  for  the  Earl  of  Wiltshire's  visit  to  Blickling  were 
natural  enough.  His  daughter  had  fallen  under  the  king's  displea- 
sure, and  had  lost  her  head  in  consequence,  and  every  possible 
means  had  been  taken  by  the  king  to  defame  her  character,  and  to 
hold  her  up  as  an  object  for  the  nation's  scorn  and  abhorrence.  The 
father  necessarily  shiured  in  the  disgrace  of  the  daughter ;  and  at  that 
moment  his  presence  at  court,  and  in  mourning,  would  not  have 
been  borne  by  the  king,  who  was  just  then  engaged  in  introducing 
his  new  wife  to  the  citizens  of  London,  and  bedding  high  festivities 
in  celebration  of  his  new  marriage. 

Retirement  to  his  country-seat,  if  only  for  a  season,  seemed 
only  proper  in  the  earl's  case,  and  the  most  reasonable  and  pru- 
dent thing  he  could  well  do.  And,  as  for  Mary  Wyatt,  she  had 
undergone  so  much  of  late  for  Anne's  sake,  had  suffered  so  much 
from  anxiety  and  distress,  had  witnessed  so  much,  had  endured 
so  much,  that,  to  retire  altogether  from  the  scene  of  so  many 
disasters  would  seem  equally  advisable  to  her ;  and  the  attached  and 
stedfast  friend  of  the  earl's  daughter  could  not  have  retired  for  a 
time  to  a  more  suitable  home  than  the  earl's  halls. 

It  was  sufficient  for  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  himself  that  he  accom- 
panied his  sister.  The  presence,  therefore,  of  the  three  together  at 
Blickling  Hall,  excited  no  curiosity  as  to  their  motives,  called  forth 
no  observations;  no  one  obtruded  upon  their  grief;  no  one  dis- 
turbed their  quiet ;  no  one  intruded  on  their  privacy ;  and  as  the 
earl  had  purposed  to  reside  here  again  for  a  few  months,  and  the 
Hall  had  been  of  late  rather  deserted  and  neglected,  various  packages 
of  furniture  and  goods  had  been  forwarded  from  his  house  in  town 


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ANNE  BOLETN  AND   SIB  THOMAS   WTATT.  237 

for  liis  use  here;  some  packages  of  this  kind,  in  old  boxes  and 
crates,  arrived  the  same  oay  tluit  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  arrived,  and 
seemingly  for  his  better  accommodation,  as  they  were  removed  at 
once  to  the  rooms  occupied  by  him  and  his  sister. 

In  fact.  Sir  Thomas  had  scarcely  had  the  covered  cart  that  brought 
these  goods  out  of  his  sight  since  the  day  it  left  London.  He 
travelled  slowly,  for  his  sister's  sake,  and  invariably  rested  for  the 
night  wherever  the  cart  rested.  Still  he  knew  nothing,  seemed  to 
care  to  know  nothing  of  either  the  cart  or  the  two  men  who  went 
with  it.  He  neither  spoke  to  them^  nor  did  they  make  the  slightest 
observation  to  him.  Occasionally  they  passed  by,  or  were  over- 
taken by  two  well-mounted  horsemen,  who  seemed  to  be  travelling 
the  same  road  with  him,  and  to  have  no  greater  motive  for  haste  than 
he  had.  These  did  occasionally,  when  the  accommodation  was  suf. 
ficlent,  rest  for  the  night  at  the  same  inn ;  but^  whenever  they  did 
so  they  took  no  notice  of  each  other.  Not  a  word  passed  between 
them.  They  either  were,  or  seemed,  at  least  to  others,  to  be  total 
strangers  to  each  other;  and  thus  thev  journeyed,  till  they  idl 
arrived  within  an  hour  oif  each  other  at  the  city  of  Norwich.  Here, 
probably,  the  strangers  stopped.  But  not  so  did  Wyatt,  nor  the 
cart  These  proceeded  onward  to  Horsham ;  and  here  Sir  Thomas 
began  to  breathe  more  freely.  He  had  so  far  succeeded  in  fulfilling 
her  dying  wish,  whose  memory  he  still  so  fondly  cherished,  —  he 
had  thus  far  brought  her  mortal  remains.  This  niffht  passed,  and 
another,  and  a  short  day's  travel  over,  he  would  place  all  that  he 
could  of  the  daughter  m  her  father's  haUs.  Whatever  might  be 
the  result  to  himself^  he  had  fulfilled  what  he  considered  his  duty  to 
her.  But  not  a  word  on  the  subject  throughout  the  whole  journey 
had  passed  between  him  and  his  sister.  WaUs  have  ears,  and  so  have 
hedges,  as  many  have  found  to  their  cost ;  and  Wyatt  had  lived 
too  long  at  court  not  to  know  when  it  was  both  prudent  and  safe 
to  keep  his  tongue  at  rest,  on  that  very  subject  especially  which 
at  the  time  was  the  most  occupying  his  thoughts.  That  night, 
however,  passed  quietly  away,  and  before  the  evening  of  the  follow- 
ing da^  they  saw  the  cart  enter  the  magnificently-timbered  park  of 
BHckhng  Hall.  Then  Wyatt  rode  on  at  once  to  the  house ;  had  a 
brief  interview  with  the  earl ;  and  the  packages  were  all  that  night 
stowed  away,  where  no  curious  eye  would  be  prying  into  them,  and 
no  Questions  be  asked  about  them. 

Thus  far  his  project  had  succeeded  to  his  utmost  desire.  Once 
more  Anne  Bofeyn  rested  in  the  halls  of  her  birth.  The  fickle 
tjrrant,  who  had  l^  his  threats  driven  away  the  devoted  Percy  from 
her, — who  had  deprived  her  of  the  happmess  she  might  have  en- 
joyed with  that  most  devoted  and  attached  admirer,  and  of  the  rank 
to  which  he  would  have  raised  her  as  Duchess  of  Northumberland, 
— who  next  sought  to  seduce  and  to  ruin  her, — who  then  raised  her 
to  his  throne, — and  finallv  sent  her  to  the  scaffold, — then  to  be 
earthed  rather  than  buried,  to  be  hid  rather  than  entombed,  little 
thought,  that,  at  that  moment,  she  was  again  in  the  hall  of  her 
fathers, — ^in  diat  hall  from  which  he  had  so  artfully  beguiled  her, 
and  from  which  he  had  so  long,  by  titles  and  appointments,  estranged 
her. 

^  There  now  once  more  she  reposes,  after  all  the  trials  and  tempta- 
tions to  which  he  had  exposed  her,  — afler  all  the  indignities  and 

s  2 


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238  ANNE  BOLEYN  AND   *B  THOMAS  WYATT. 

insults  to  which  he  had  subjected  her,— after  all  the  calumnies  and 
falsehoods  he  had  heaped  upon  her.  Oh^  could  she  have  known  when 
she  ascended  the  scam)ld^  that  within  one  month  from  that  day  all 
that  remained  on  earth  of  her  would  be  found  in  that  chamber  once 
called  her  own  at  filickling  Hal1>  how  much  firmer  would  have  been 
her  step^  and  how  much  more  cheerful  her  spirit !  She  had  appre- 
hended that  her  remains  would  be  indignantly  treated^ — that  the 
rites  of  sepulture  would  be  withheld  from  her,  and  that  her  grave 
would  be  where  no  memorial  would  be  found  of  her ;  and,  therefore, 
her  appeal  to  Wyatt^  to  save  her,  if  possible,  from  the  degradation 
that  awaited  her, — to  remove  her,  if  possible,  to  the  tomb  of  her 
fathers.  Her  desire  had  now,  however,  a  prospect  of  fulfilment, — a 
grave  had  been  opened  in  Salle  church,  which  was  the  ancient  burial- 
place  of  her  father's  family ;  and  thither,  on  the  second  night  after 
Wyatt's  arrival,  the  earl  proceeded,  accompanied  by  his  guests, 
ostensiblv  for  the  purpose  of  having  midnight  masses  said  for  the 
repose  of  his  daughter's  soul ;  his  daughter's  remains,  however,  went 
with  him.  They  had,  under  Mary  Wyatt's  care,  immediately  upon 
their  removal  from  the  Tower  to  her  house,  been  most  carefully 
embalmed,  and  wrapped  in  cere-cloth.  In  that  state,  and  covered 
with  a  black  velvet  pall,  she  was  placed  in  one  of  her  father's  car- 
riages, into  which  Wyatt  and  his  sister  entered ;  the  earl  preceding 
them  in  another  carriage  alone. 

What  that  earl's  thoughts  and  reflections  were  during  the  two 
hours  he  was  slowly  and  unobservedly  travelling,  by  Aylsham  and 
Cawston,  to  Salle,  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  divine.  He  had  within 
the  month  lost  a  daughter  and  a  son  by  the  hand  of  the  executioner, 
— ^that  son  his  only  son, — that  daughter  the  queen  of  England.  Her 
name,  besides,  had  been  branded  with  infamy;  and,  the  prime 
mover  of  all  this  miserv  to  him, — the  most  active  agent  to  work  him 
all  this  ill, — to  bring  his  son  and  his  daughter  to  the  block, — was  his 
own  son's  wife,  the  infamous  Lady  Rocnford.  There  ended  all  his 
dreams  of  ambition, — all  his  influence  and  prosperity.  His  children 
beheaded, — his  name  dishonoured, — himself  shunned.  He  was  now 
alone,  it  might  be  said,  in  the  world.  One  daughter,  indeed,  yet  re- 
mained to  lum,  his  daughter  Mary ;  but  she  had  two  years  before 
incurred  the  anger  of  her  father  by  marrying  Sir  W.  Stafford ;  and 
he  was,  in  consequence,  utterly  estranged  from  her. 

The  bitter  reflections  of  those  two  hours,  perhaps  the  better  pre- 
pared the  earl  for  the  solemn  ceremonies  that  awaited  his  coming  at 
Salle  church.  He  alighted  there  at  midnight.  A  few  faithful  ser- 
vants bore  the  mangled  remains  of  his  daughter  to  the  side  of  her 
tomb ;  but  the  perilous  duty  all  there  were  engaged  in  would  not 
allow  of  numerous  tapers,— of  a  chapeUe  ardente^^o£  a  whole  choir 
of  priests,— or  of  grand  ceremonials.  One  priest  alone  was  there, 
and  the  few  candles  that  were  lighted  did  no  more  than  just  show 
the  gloom  in  which  they  were  shrouded. 

But,  all  that  could  be  done  for  the  murdered  queen  was  done, — a 
mass  was  said  for  the  repose  of  her  soul, — De  profundis  was  chanted 
by  those  present,— her  remains  were  carefully  lowered  into  the 
^ave,  where  they  now  rest,  and  a  black-marble  slab,  without  either 
inscription  or  initials,  alone  marked  the  spot  which  contains  all  that 
was  mortal  of  Anne  Boleyn-— once  queen  of  England. 

Glkncblin. 


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239 


PARA;   OR,  SCENES  AND  ADVENTURES  ON  THE 
BANKS  OF  THE  AMAZON. 

BY  J.   B.  WARBBN. 

R^ons  immense,  unsearchable,  unknown. 

Bask  in  the  splendour  of  the  solar  zone.    Moktookiert. 

CHAPTBB   VI. 

The  City. — Its  Appearance  and  Population.— State  of  Society.— The  great  Number 
of  Padres,  or  Priests. — Charms. — The  Churches.— Public  Buildings.— Military 
Force. — Oodolphus,  a  celebrated  Slave.— Professional  Beggars. — The  Women. 
The  Etiquette  of  Dress. — The  Language.— Festivals  of  Para. — Festa  de  Nazare. 

A  VERY  strange-looking  citv  is  Para,  with  its  low  white*  washed 
dwellings  covered  with  earthenware  tiles;  its  lofty  commercial 
buildings^  with  little  balconies  jutting  out  towards  the  street;  its 
dark- walled  churches^  with  their  towering  spires ;  its  gardens^  teem- 
ing with  all  the  beauty  and  variety  of  tropical  vegetation^  and  its 
swarthy  inhabitants^  differing  as  much  in  their  complexions  as  the 
birds  of  the  forest  vary  in  the  tints  o£  their  plumage. 

As  no  regular  census  has  ever  been  taken  in  the  city,  it  is  impos- 
fiible  to  state  with  accuracy  the  amount  of  the  population ;  the  num* 
ber,  however,  cannot  be  less  than  fifteen  thousand.  That  of  the 
whole  province  has  been  supposed  to  be  about  two  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand,  including  the  blacks  and  Indians,  who  compose  by 
far  the  greater  part  of  this  number. 

Owing  to  the  general  ignorance  and  superstition  of  the  lower 
classes,  the  lack  of  schools  and  institutions  of  learning,  the  restric- 
tion of  the  press,  and  almost  total  absence  of  books,  there  is  no 
society,  in  the  English  or  American  acceptation  of  the  term.  Per- 
haps a  better  reason  for  this  than  any  before-mentioned  is  the  want 
of  refinement  among  the  females,  and  the  great  disrespect  which  is 
here  exercised  towards  the  sacred  institution  of  marriage.  There  is 
no  better  criterion,  not  only  of  the  state  of  society,  but  of  the  general 
prosperity  and  commercial  importance  of  a  country,  than  the  intelli- 
gence, the  influence,  and  the  power,  that '' lovely  woman"  brings  to 
bear  upon  the  immortal  destinies  of  man.  We  need  only  glance  at 
the  condition  of  England  and  America,  in  proof  of  this  assertion ; 
nor  need  we  look  further  than  Brazil  to  illustrate  the  contrary, — 
that  where  woman  is  degraded  the  people  are  corrupt^  enervated, 
and  superstitious, — the  government  weak,  insufficient,  and  power- 
less. This  is  particularly  the  case  at  Para,  which  is  decidedly  the 
most  independent  of  the  whole  nineteen  provinces  into  which  the 
vast  empire  of  Brazil  is  divided, 

The  executive  of  the  province  is  termed  a  "  presidente,"  and  re- 
ceives his  appointment  ftom  the  emperor.  He  is  allowed  three  as- 
sistants, who  are  called  vice-presidents.  The  chief  of  the  police 
is  considered  next  in  rank  to  the  presidente,  and  he  also  receives 
his  appointment  directly  from  Rio  Janeiro. 

In  tne  selection  of  these  distinguished  officials  no  regard  whatever 
is  paid  to  colour.  The  president  himself,  at  the  time  of  our  depar- 
ture, was  a  woolly-headed  mulatto,  and,  not  only  that,  but  he  was 
reputed  to  be  the  son  of  a  padre;  and,  as  the  padres  are  prohibited 


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240  paea;  or, 

from  matrimony  by  the  statutes^  his  genealogy  certainly  cannot 
be  of  the  most  honourable  character.  The  chief  of  the  police,  also, 
had  a  dark  complexion,  hardly  more  enTidi^  than  that  of  the  pre« 
sident.  T^iese  were  the  men  selected  to  represent  tkt  dignity  of  the 
province — worthy  representatives,  truly  ! 

All  are  obliged  to  do  military  duty  at  Para ;  none  are  ezcolpated 
from  this  service  but  padres  and  slaves ;  and,  as  the  duty  is  y%tj 
onerous,  it  becomes  quite  desirable  to  assume  the  office  of  pricMI» 
Consequently,  it  is  not  so  much  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  number 
of  these  *'  pious  and  highly-favoured  individuals  "  in  the  city  alone 
amounts  to  several  hundreds. 

^'  But  how,  under  heavens,  do  so  many  of  them  earn  a  liveli- 
hood ?"  methinks  I  hear  the  reader  exclaim.  This,  doubtless,  would 
be  difficult  indeed,  in  such  a  heathen  community,  by  the  practice  of 
the  principles  of  religion  and  virtue  alone.  To  tell  the  truth,  they 
do  not  earn  their  living  hy  the  practice,  but  by  the  ** practices"  of 
their  profession.  Superstition  aids  them  in  the  impositions  by  which 
they  ensnare  the  unsuspecting  natives,  and  wring  from  them  the 
earnings  of  their  industry  and  labour. 

The  most  profitable  branch  of  their  profession  is  that  of  conse* 
crating  small  stones,  shells,  and  other  articles  of  trifling  value,  and 
then  vending  them  to  the  natives  at  enormous  sums,  as  sovereign 
charms  against  certain  diseases  or  evil  spirits.  We  noticed  tluit 
every  black  or  Indian  we  encountered  in  the  streets,  had  more  or 
less  of  these  baubles  strung  about  their  necks.  Even  Chico,  our 
invaluable  cook  at  Nazare,  had  at  least  a  dozen  of  them,  for  which 
she  had  paid  as  many  dollars,  and  sincerely  believed  in  their  power 
of  wardingoff  the  diffisrent  evils  for  which  they  were  severally  in- 
tended. Whenever  one  of  these  *^  holy  trifles  "  is  found  in  the  streets, 
it  is  carried  immediately  by  the  finder  to  one  of  the  churches,  and 
there  suspended  on  a  certain  door,  where  the  original  owner  may, 
in  his  search,  recover  it  again. 

The  churches  are  of  immense  size,  and  constructed  of  solid  stone. 
They  are  destitute  of  pews,  have  several  richly  carved  altars,  and 
are  profusely  ornamented  with  pictures,  and  gorgeously  dressed 
images  of  the  saints.  The  cathedral  is  probably  the  largest  edifice 
of  the  kind  in  the  empire.  It  has  two  steeples,  well  supplied  with 
bells,  whose  sonorous  chiming  may  be  heard  at  all  hours  of  the  day. 
Among  other  public  buildings  may  be  mentioned  the  Custom  House, 
which  is  a  structure  of  extraordinary  size  and  antique  appearance — 
one  department  of  it  answers  the  purposes  of  a  prison,  and  is  always 
well  tenanted  by  villainous-looking  convicts.  This  building  is  of 
great  age,  and  was  built,  I  believe,  by  the  Jesuits,  as  a  kind  of 
monastery  or  abbey.  It  stands  on  the  brink  of  the  river,  and  was 
well  situated  for  the  transaction  of  commercial  business.  Hence,  its 
conversion  into  a  Custom  House. 

The  president's  palace  is  also  a  stupendous  pile,  but  it  displays 
but  litUe  architectural  skill,  or  taste  m  its  construction.  It  was 
built  more  than  a  century  ago,  when  Portugal  was  looking  anxiously 
forward  to  this  province,  as  the  seat  of  the  national  government  of 
the  empire. 

The  ancient  Jesuit  College  has  been  converted  into  an  eccle- 
siastical seminary.  The  old  convents,  which  at  one  time  were  very 
numerous,  are  now  reduced  to  two  or  three,  of  the  Franciscan  order. 


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ADVENTURES   ON   THE  AMAZON.  241 

The  edifice  in  which  the  assembly  of  deputies  hold  their  sessions^ 
was  once  a  convent  of  the  Carmelites.  These  deputies  are  chosen 
by  the  people^  to  attend  to  the  public  affairs  of  the  province ;  all  of 
their  acts,  however,  have  to  be  referred  to  Rio  Janeiro  for  con- 
firmation. 

On  account  of  the  revolutionary  spirit  of  the  people,  a  large  mili- 
twj  force  of  regular  troops  is  distributed  throughout  the  province. 
The  number  in  the  city  aione  cannot  be  less  than  eight  hundred  or 
a  thousand.  At  all  the  important  posts  of  the  city,  such  as  the 
palace,  custom-house,  and  arsenal,  guards  are  stationed,  who  may 
be  seen  standing  or  walking  about  listlessly  during  the  day,  with 
huge  muskets  on  their  shoulders,  or  stretched  out  before  the  door- 
way itself,  in  a  state  of  half  intoxication,  worldly  indifference,  or 
repose.  On  a  certain  evening,  it  is  said,  that  as  an  inebriated  Yankee 
or  English  sailor  was  perambulating  the  streets  of  the  city,  sere- 
nadkig  the  inhabitants  as  he  reeled  along,  he  was  suddenly  hailed 
by  one  of  the  custom-house  guards,  (as  he  was  making  a  short  tack 
io  carry  himself  past  that  establishment,)  with  "Quem  vai  la"  (who 
goes  there),  to  which  question  the  customary  reply  is  '*  Amigo  "  (a 
friend).  Our  hero,  however,  not  understanding  a  single  word  of  the 
Portuguese  language,  had  no  idea  of  the  interrogatory  that  had  been 
put  to  him  by  the  guard,  in  fact,  he  was  quite  indignant  that  any 
one  should  have  the  impertinence  to  address  him  in  such  an  au- 
thoritative manner,  and,  therefore,  cried  out  in  a  stentorian  voice, 
which  was  audible  at  the  distance  of  several  hundred  yards — *'  You 
—  screaming  Portuguese  sun  of  a  gun,  stop  your  confounded 

noise,  or  I  '11  send  you  to  "    Perceiving  that  our  friend  was 

somewhat  exhilarated,  and  not  knowing  but  the  reply  he  had  made 
was  to  the  effect  that  he  did  not  understand  the  language,  he  was 
permitted  to  pass  on  without  any  further  molestation. 

A  military  body  never  embraced  a  more  motley  collection  of  men 
than  that  of  the  national  guard  at  Para.  Such  a  ludicrous  com- 
pilation of  individuals,  as  is  here  assembled,  is  not  to  be  witnessed 
m  any  country  without  the  frontiers  of  Brazil.  Here  you  may  see 
men  of  all  classes,  all  colours,  and  all  sizes,  indiscriminately  mixed 
together  into  one  grand  living  pot-pie.  The  most  respectable  com- 
pany that  we  noticed,  was  composed  entirely  of  free  blacks.  They 
were  all  fine  formed  men,  and  the  bright  colours  of  their  uniform, 
contrasted  finely  with  the  sable  hue  of  their  complexions.  It  can 
easily  be  imagined,  that  a  company  thus  made  up  would  have  a 
much  better  appearance  than  another,  composed  of  a  heterogeneous 
assemblage  of  blacks,  whites,  Indians,  and  all  the  numerous  inter- 
mediate shades  which  result  from  the  different  combinations  of  each. 
The  pecuniary  remuneration  which  the  common  soldiers  receive  for 
their  services  is  extremely  small,  not  amounting  to  more  than  five 
or  ten  cents  per  day.  Thus  we  were  informed  by  Joaquim,  who 
was  himself  obliged  to  perform  military  duty  one  or  two  days  during 
the  week.  The  regular  imperial  troops  stationed  at  Peru,  are  com- 
posed mostly  of  native  Brazilians,  but  still  they  are  a  swarthy  and 
ugly-faced  set  of  fellows,  and  but  little  superior  to  the  provincials 
in  Uieir  jzeneral  appearance. 

The  Brazilians  are  noted  for  the  kindness  which  they  exercise 
towards  their  slaves,  and  this  is  particularly  the  case  at  Para.  They 
are  here  treated  with  extraordinary  clemency  by  their  masters,  and 


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242  para;  or, 

but  little  labour  comparatively  is  required  of  them.  Having  per- 
formed the  usual  amount  of  work  that  is  assigned  them,  they  are 
permitted  to  work  during  the  residue  of  the  day  for  whomever  they 
please^  the  proceeds  of  which  goes  towards  purchasing  their  free- 
dom. Even  their  masters  remunerate  them  for  whatever  labour 
they  perform,  beyond  that  regularly  allotted  them.  This  decidedly, 
is  one  of  the  best  traits  of  the  Brazilian  character.  Instances  of 
singular  generosity  towards  the  slaves  occur  frequently  at  Para.  A 
Scotch  gentleman,  well  known  for  his  liberality  and  many  good 
qualities,  loaned  to  a  certain  slave  of  an  enterprizing  turn  of  mind, 
an  amount  sufficient  to  purchase  the  freedom  of  himself  and  family. 
Oodolphus  (for  this  was  the  name  of  the  slave,)  was  a  noble  fel- 
low, and  as  much  esteemed  as  any  one  could  be,  occupying  his  lowly 
condition.  Having  acquired  his  libertv,  a  new  course  of  life  opened 
before  him.  By  dint  of  industry  and  perseverance,  he  finally  be- 
came the  leader  of  a  large  company  of  ganhadores  and  began  to 
accumulate  money  very  rapidly.  For  a  black,  his  reputation  was 
wonderful.  Whenever  a  number  of  men  were  required  to  land  a 
vessel,  or  to  perform  any  operation  which  called  for  the  exercise  of 
physical  power,  the  applicants  were  always  referred  to  Oodol- 
phus, who  furnished  immediately  whatever  number  of  men  might 
be  desired.  Prosperity  and  happiness  smiled  upon  him,  and  in  less 
than  two  years  he  paid  off  the  entire  sum  that  his  kind-hearted 
benefactor  had  loaned  him.  Oodolphus  became  known  and  re- 
spected by  everybody  I  His  heart  bounded  with  joy  I — for  he  was 
released  nrom  servile  bondage  for  ever — ^he  was  a  slave  no  more  I 

The  begrars  of  Para  are  so  numerous  that  they  may  be  said  to  con- 
stitute a  distinct  class  of  society  by  themselves.  On  account  of 
their  great  numbers  they  are  only  allowed  to  make  their  professional 
visits  on  Saturday.  On  this  day  the  streets  literally  swarm  with 
them.  Some  have  bandages  round  their  heads ;  others  have  their 
arms  suspended  in  slings ;  while  many  are  afflicted  with  blindness, 
and  divers  other  maladies,  which  we  will  not  take  upon  ourselves  to 
mention. 

The  people  for  the  most  part  are  disposed  to  be  charitable  towards 
these  poor  mendicants,  and  no  one  thinks  of  refusing  them  their 
regular  vinten.  Should  a  person  be  so  unwise  as  to  do  so,  instead 
of  a  blessing  and  a  score  of  thanks,  he  would  probably  be  saluted 
with  a  shower  of  reproaches,  accompanied  with  imprecations  and 
epithets  of  a  highly  derogatory  character.  This  being  their  policj^, 
it  is  no  wonder  that  their  business,  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view,  is 
so  attractive  as  to  draw  into  its  ranks  such  a  long  list  of  votaries. 
Besides  the  uniformity  and  blandness  of  the  climate,  although  ex- 
ceedingly invigorating  for  consumptive  invalids,  seem  to  have  an 
enervating  effect  upon  the  character  of  the  natives,  indisposing  them 
for  exertion  of  any  kind,  and  rendering  them  insensible  to  all  the 
finer  feelings  of  humanity. 

It  now  behoves  us  to  say  a  word  concerning  the  character  and 
personal  appearance  of  the  women  who  inhabit  this  fair  section  of 
the  globe. 

They  are  of  many  kinds— of  different  races — and  of  many  varia- 
tions of  complexions;  but,  with  few  exceptions,  they  idl  have  fine 
forms— «nd  are  jovial  and  light-hearted  in  their  dispositions.  Their 
passions  are  strong,  and  their  affections  ardent ;  and  when  jealousy 


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ADVENTURES  ON  THE  AMAZON.  243 

invades  their  boemns  their  resentment  knows  no  bounds.  It  is  a 
well  established  fact,  that  the  bliss  of  acute  love,  founded  on  passion, 
is  of^en  as  transient  and  deceitful  as  the  awful  stillness  of  the  ele- 
ments .which  precedes  the  hurricane,  and  followed  by  consequences 
as  deplorable  and  severe.  Hate  takes  possession  of  the  mind,  and 
the  heart  itself  is  soon  converted  into  an  infirmary  of  wickedness. 
Revenge  follows,  and  crime  throws  a  dark  pall  over  the  scene  I 

The  passions  predominate  in  all  tropical  countries,  and  am<mg  the 
women ;  this  is  particularly  the  case  at  Para.  The  blacks  have  all 
regular  features  and  are  in  some  instances  quite  good  looking — ^the 
mulattoes  are  quite  comely — the  confusas  (a  mixture  of  Indian  and 
black)  are  very  animated,  having  the  features  of  the  former  and  the 
curly  hair  of  the  latter — the  Portuguese  and  native  Brazilians  are 
generally  pret^;  but  to  our  taste,  the  mamelukes  or  half-bred 
Indian  girls,  with  their  dark  eyes,  luxuriant  hair,  and  olive  com- 
plexions, are  decidedly  the  most  beautiful  and  interesting!  The 
women  make  use  of  no  more  clothing  than  is  absolutely  necessary ; 
and  the  children,  of  both  sexes,  may  be  seen  running  about  the 
streets  continually  in  a  state  of  utter  nudity.  The  men,  on  ordinary 
occasions,  wear  white  pantaloons,  and  frock-coats,  or  blouses  of  the 
same  material.  But  no  person  is  considered  in  full  dress,  unless  he 
is  habited  in  black  from  head  to  foot. 

Whenever  a  person  is  invited  to  a  select  dinner-party,  it  is  always 
expected  that  he  should  make  his  appearance  in  a  sable  coat  of  clotn ; 
but,  immediately  on  his  arrival,  he  is  invited  to  take  il  off',  and  offered 
a  light  one  of  fine  linen  to  substitute  in  its  place.  This  custom  is 
founded  on  correct  principles,  and  always  meets  with  the  entire 
satisfaction  of  strangers — for  it  is  indeed  a  hardship,  to  be  obliged 
to  wear  a  cloth  coat  at  any  time,  in  so  warm  a  climate,  especially 
at  dinner,  when  one  likes  to  have  his  motions  as  free  and  easy  as 
fiuhion  and  the  laws  of  etiquette  will  permit !  The  less  restraint  that 
is  put  upon  a  person  in  the  mastication  of  a  meal,  the  more  cheerful 
and  animated  will  be  his  conversation — the  more  pungent  his  wit, 
the  more  hearty  his  jokes,  and  the  more  perfect  and  satisfactory  his 
digestion  I 

The  greater  proportion  of  the  white  inhabitants  of  the  city  are 
Portuguese ;  and  their  language  is  the  one  that  is  principaUy,  if  not 
universally,  spoken  throughout  the  jprovince.  It  is  soft  and  musical, 
and  is  acquired  by  foreigners  with  extraordinary  facility.  The 
English  and  American  residents  are  sufficient  in  number  to  form  an 
excellent  society  by  themselves,  and  they  are  all  extensively  engaged 
in  commercial  transactions  with  their  respective  countries. 

The  festivals  of  Para  are  numerous,  and  appear  to  be  well  suited 
to  the  romantic  beauty  of  the  country,  and  the  superstitious  charac- 
ter of  the  inhabitants.  Almost  every  other  dav>  is  the  anniversary 
of  some  distinguished  saint,  and  is  celebrated  with  all  the  pomp  and 
magnificence  of  the  country.  The  bells  are  kept  ringing  throughout 
the  day — a  gorgeous  procession  moves  through  the  narrow  streets, 
and  the  evening  is  consecrated  by  dancing,  fireworks,  and  illu- 
minations. 

The  most  remarkable  holyday  season  that  is  observed  in  the  pro- 
vince is  termed  the  **  Festa  de  Nazare."  This  great  festival  takes 
place  either  in  September  or  October,  according  to  the  state  of  the 
moon,  the  light  of  that  luminary  being  indispensable  on  this  occa- 


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244  para;  or, 

non.  The  usual  period  of  its  cmitinuance  is  about  two  weeks, 
during  whidi  time  the  stores  in  the  city  are  closed,  and  business 
almost  entirely  suspended.  All  take  part  in  the  festivities,  both  the 
old  and  the  young,  the  rich  and  the  poor ;  and  for  weeks  previous, 
preparations  are  being  made,  and  nothing  is  talked  of  but  the  de- 
lights and  pleasures  of  the  approaching  season.  The  wealthy  con- 
tribute large  sums  in  cleaning  and  beautifying  the  grounds^  and  in 
erecting  temporary  habitations,  for  themselves  and  families  to 
occupy  during  the  period  of  the  feast. 

The  poor  expend  whatever  thev  may  have  amassed  by  months  of 
untiring  labour,  in  purchasing  gala  dresses,  and  ornaments  for  the 
occasion.  An  intense  excitement  prevails  among  all  classes,  such  as 
those  only  who  have  been  there  can  possibly  reidize. 

The  origin  of  the  feast  was  given  me  by  a  venerable  old  man  in 
nearly  the  following  words : — 

Many  years  ago,  as  a  certain  horseman  was  riding  on  the  flowery 
plains  of  Portugal,  he  perceived  a  nimble  deer,  gracefully  gliding 
over  the  grassy  mmtdow,  a  long  way  off  before  him.  In  a  moment, 
he  *^  dashed  the  rowels  in  his  steed,"  and  was  bounding  over  the 
plain  in  eager  pursuit  of  his  intended  victim.  Like  an  arrow  from 
a  bow,  the  ill-fated  deer  continued  his  rapid  flight,  but,  notwith- 
standing all  his  efforts,  every  moment  brought  his  pursuer  nearer.  The 
eyes  of  the  horseman  were  so  intensely  fixed  upon  the  animal  that 
he  was  whoUv  regardless  of  all  else  than  the  possession  of  his  prey, 
and  this  single  object  filled  and  engrossed  all  his  faculties.  DaqMsr 
was  near,  but  being  unconscious  of  it,  he  pressed  recklessly  en  ;  «t  bat 
the  deer  arrived  at  the  brink  of  an  unseen  precipice,aiid  j^nnged  head- 
long into  the  abyss  beneath.  The  horaeoun^  wlio  was  but  a  short 
distance  behind,  followed  willi  l^ghtwinpF-like  rapidity  onward— 
wiwtt  witlni  A  few  fiset  of  the  Terge,  the  nder  was  suddenly  aroused 
to  a  sense  of  the  awfulness  of  his  situation.  It  was  a  critical  and  a 
solemn  moment  1 — all  human  aid  was  vain !  This  the  rider  knew, 
but  still  his  courage  did  not  forsake  him,  even  in  the  presence  of  the 
impending  catastrophe ;  raising  hisarms  imploringly  towards  heaven, 
he  inwardly  murmured,  ^'  Santa  Maria,  salve  me,"  (holy  Mary,  save 
me.)  The  prayer  was  heard ! — ^by  her  supernatural  influence,  the  im- 
petus of  the  fiery  charger  was  checked — and  his  rider  was  saved !  From 
this  wonderful  interposition  on  the  part  of  the  Sainted  Virgin,  the 
festival  of  Nazare  is  said  to  have  derived  its  origin,  and  however 
absurd  the  story  may  appear  to  the  reader,  yet  it  is  positively  be- 
lieved by  many  of  the  simple-minded  natives  of  Para. 

The  historical  account  of  the  origin  of  the  festival,  as  given  by  a 
celebrated  Portuguese  author  is  far  more  satisfactory  and  credible 
than  the  for^^ing.  According  to  it,  there  lived  many  years  ago, 
in  the  vicinity  of  Para,  a  certain  mulatto,  by  the  name  of  Pladdo, 
who  was  distinguished  for  his  extensive  piety  and  devotion. 
This  solitary  individual  had  in  his  possession  a  small  and  rudely 
carved  image  of  the  Virgin  Marv,  which  he  was  accustomed  to 
worship  both  morning  and  evemng.  This  he  kept  in  his  little 
leaf- covered  habitation,  and  guarded  it  with  the  greatest  assiduity 
and  care.  On  the  death  of  Placido,  the  sacred  image  fell  into  the 
hands  of  an  exceedingly  zealous  person  called  Antonio  Angostinho, 
who,  by  his  extensive  influence,  induced  a  body  of  religious  enthu- 
siasts to  build  a  kind  of  hermitage  for  its  accommodation.     This 


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ADVENTURES   ON   THE  AMAZON.  245 

hermitage  was  ntaated  within  a  short  distance  f^m  the  city,  and 
being  easily  accessible,  it  soon  became  a  place  of  popular  resort  by 
many  of  the  dtisens,  who  freauently  repaired  thitner  for  holy  pur- 
poses. Finally,  on  the  3rd  or  July,  1793,  it  was  solemnly  de<^eed 
by  the  captain-^ceneral  of  the  province,  that  a  regular  festival,  in 
honour  of  the  Virgin  Mary  should  be  held  near  this  place  every 
year.  Thus  was  the  Festa  de  Nazare  established  —  and  so  well 
did  it  accord  with  the  spirit  and  genius  of  the  people  that  it  has  ever 
since  been  most  scrupulously  observed. 

The  festivities  on  this  occasion  are  commenced  by  a  brilliant  and 
extended  procession,  which  forms  in  the  city,  and  moves  out  late  in 
the  afternoon,  towards  the  Largo  de  Nasare.  The  procession  is 
led  by  a  number  of  citizens  on  horseback,  after  whom  an  immense 
yehide,  styled  the  ''  car  of  triumph  "  is  drawn  along  by  a  pair  of 
oxen,  handsomely  decorated  with  ribbons  and  flowers.  Within  the 
car  are  several  youths,  who  afford  entertainment  to  the  vast  multi- 
Uide  by  occasional  discharges  of  rockets  or  other  fireworks. 

A  £ne  band  of  music  next  follows,  preceding  a  large  body  of 
milila«7;  Then  comes  the  president  of  tne  province,  mounted  on  a 
richly  capflliBMitd  horse.  After  him  succeeds  a  chaise,  bearing  in 
it  a  single  prieit»%Mether  with  the  sacred  image  of  the  virgin.  The 
procession  is  closed  nhe  all  others  in  Brazil,  by  a  motley  crowd  of 
the  lower  classes— men,  widi  hiute  trays  of  fruit  and  sweetmeats  on 
their  heads^-Indian  damsels,  wMk  fiwiinn  of  massive  gold  suspended 
round  their  necks,  and  children  of  efWf  ^omplexion>  revelling  in 
all  the  freedom  of  absolute  nakedness. 

The  procession  having  arrived  at  the  Largls  "flK  image  of 
Nosra  Senhora  is  deposited  in  the  little  church  firmMis^  Ihe 
Roscenia  de  Nazare.  A  holy  ordinance  is  then  performed,  and  m 
hymn  sung ;  and,  every  day  throughout  the  festival,  these  religious 
ceremonies  are  repeated  in  the  chapel,  both  at  sun-rise  and  sun-set. 
The  church  being  exceedingly  small,  but  few  persons  are  able  to  ob- 
tain an  entrance,  yet  hundreds  crowd  together  before  the  porch,  and 
zealously  engage  m  the  chants  to  the  blessed  Virgin.  The  services 
being  conclud^,  the  populace  are  allowed  to  enter  the  church,  and 
each,  in  their  turn,  to  kiss  the  consecrated  ribbons  by  which  it  is 
profusely  ornamented. 

In  the  evening  an  infinite  variety  of  amusements  are  resorted  to. 

Fancy  yourself,  dear  reader,  for  a  moment  transported  to  the 
enchanting  province  of  which  we  write.  It  is  a  lovely  moonlight 
evening,  such  as  is  only  witnessed  in  the  tropics,  andprou  are  strolling 
out  of  the  dty  with  a  friend,  to  observe  the  festivities  of  Nazare ! 

How  beautiful  the  dense  thicket  of  shrubbery  through  which  you 
are  wending  your  way — ^how  prettily  those  tall  palms  droop  tneir 
feather-like  branches  and  quiver  in  the  fhigrant  breeze — how  mer- 
rily the  insects  hum  and  flit  about  in  the  pure  atmosphere  1  but 
listen  an  instant  to  a  sound  surpassingly  ricn  and  melodious,  that 
now  breaks  upon  your  ear,  like  a  yoice  from  the  "  spirit  land," — ay, 
it  is  the  plaintive  note  of  a  ''  southern  nightingale,"  charming  his 
mate  with  a  love-song  of  bewitching  sweetness.  Attentively  you 
hearken  to  the  delightful  strain,  and  a  soft  melancholy  steals  over 
your  mind,  fiut  at  length  you  arrive  at  the  monument  of  Nazare! 
What  a  gorgeous  spectacle  now  meets  your  eye,  and  what  a  rapid 
transition  in  the  state  of  your  feelings  instantly  takes  place. 


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246 


SIR   MAGNUS   AND  THE   SEA-WITCH. 


Before  you  is  an  immense  assemblage,  gaily  dancing  on  the  green 
— a  splendid  band  is  enlivening  the  vast  concourse  with  its  stimu- 
lating music,  and  all  are  busily  engaged  in  every  variety  of  human 
enjoyment. 

Take  a  peep  into  the  low  thatched  sheds  which  line  the  Largo 
on  either  side,  and  you  will  see  every  species  of  dissipation.  In  one 
you  will  perceive  a  number  of  persons  occupying  themselves  with 
cards,  or  a  party  playing  billiards.  These  are  gamblers,  as  is  mani- 
fest from  the  piles  of  dollars  exposed  on  the  tables.  In  another,  you 
tnay  perchance  see  a  soldier  or  citizen,  swinging  in  a  beautifully 
woven  hammock,  and  discoursing  love  to  a  vduptuous  looking 
Indian  maid,  with  dark  dreamy  eyes,  and  long  luxuriant  hair,  while 
her  naturally  developed  waist  is  encircled  by  his  wanton  arm. 
Shocking  as  these  spectacles  may  appear  to  the  delicate  reader, 
yet  they  cannot  be  more  so,  than  they  were  in  reality  to  the  writer 
— and  candour  and  truth  compel  him  to  describe  them,  in  order  to 
give  an  adequate  idea  of  the  true  character  of  the  people  among 
whom  it  was  his  fortune  to  be  thrown. 

But  we  will  not  dwell  upon  the  incidents  of  this  Festa.  Suffice 
it  to  say,  that  for  two  weeks,  nothing  is  known  but  dissipation,  at 
the  expiration  of  which  time  it  is  brought  to  its  termination. 

Although  this  extraordinary  festiviu  usually  passes  by  without 
any  serious  accidents  or  public  disturbances,  yet  it  is  much  to  be 
questioned  whether  it  exerts  anything  but  a  decidedly  immoral  and 
debasing  tendency  upon  the  morals  of  the  people. 


SIR  MAGNUS  AND  THE  SEA-WITCH. 


It  fell  on  a  Sunday  moming^a  dawn, 
Ere  the  larks  to  heaven  were  win^^ 

A  younff  man  slept  on  a  sea-beat  lawn. 
And  he  heard  the  Mermaid  singing. 

*' Magnus,  young  Magnus,  listen 
to  me, 

I  bring  thee  gifM  from  the  silver 
sea; 

I  court  thee  to  plunge  in  the  eme- 
rald waves. 

And  woo  me  for  aye  in  its  crystal 
caves. 

*'  And  I  will  give  thee  a  mantle  fine. 

As  ever  wore  knight  on  his  shoulder. 
Whose  scarlet  woof  like  the  sun  shall 
shine, 
And  dazzle  the  rash  beholder. 

««  Magnus,  young  Magnus,  Slc, 

♦•And  I  will  give  thee  a  sword  of  might, 

With  a  scabbard  and  rings  all  golden; 

Whenever  thou   will*st  it  in  feud  or 

fight. 

The  triumph  by  thee  shall  be  holden. 

««  Magnus,  young  Magnus,  &.c 


'^And  a  new  mill-house  I  will  give  to 
thee. 
With  mill-stones  working  for  ever, 
They  turn  on  the  ground  as  Ught  and  free 
As  those  in  the  running  river. 

*'  Magnus,  young  Magnus,*'  &c. 

*^  If  thou  wert  a  Christian  maiden  mild, 
I*d  pledge  thee  my  troth  by  the  foun- 
tain; 
But  thou  art  a  sea-witch  wicked  and 
wild. 
And  hence  to  thy  wave- washed  moun- 
tain." 

**•  Magnus,  young  Magnus,**  &c 

Sir  Magnus  he  wheel'd  his  steed  around. 
But  the  Mermaid  rose  up  and  stay'd 
him  i 
Her  hand  in  the  bridle  and  bit  she 
wound, 
And  to  tarry  awhile  she  pray*d  him. 
^<  Magnus,  young  Magnus,*'  &c 

And  had  not  high  Heaven  will*d  it  so, 
That  the  cock  at  that  moment  chanted, 
With   the   Mermaid   wild  the  knight 
should  go. 
And  her  heart's  desire  were  granted. 
♦<  Magnus,  young  Magnus,"  &c. 
£.  K. 


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247 
CHRISTMAS  FESTIVITIES  AT  ROME. 

BY   MRS.    PSRGY^  8INNBTT. 

Reformed  Rome  is  just  as  rich  in  holidays  as  the  Rome  of  the 
Middle  Ages, — nay  richer,  for  the  old  list  is  increased  by  the  addi- 
tion of  the  political  and  national  guard  festivals;  and,  on  all  these 
days,  galleries,  museums,  and  shops  are  closed,  and  no  one  will  ''  do 
any  manner  of  work."  Of  course  I  do  not  mean  that  the  Romans  lay 
themselves  under  any  restraints  like  those  of  a  Puritanical  Sabbath ; 
their  reason  for  refraining  from  work  is  simply  to  enjoy  play.  In 
what  manner  this  inordinate  holiday-making  will  be  found  to  agree 
with  the  requisitions  of  a  reformed  constitution,  and  an  improved 
administration  of  public  affairs,  I  cannot  imagine,  but  fortunately 
it's  no  business  of  mine. 

Ailer  the  Christmas-eve  came  three  Christmas-days,  Saturday, 
Sunday,  and  Monday ;  Friday,  the  New-year *8-eve,  was  also  ob* 
served  with  all  the  honours, — New-year's-day  is  a  holiday  all  the 
world  over.  The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  nobody  of  course  could 
object  to  being  idle  then ;  and  to-day,  on  which  I  am  writing,  is  no 
less  a  day  than  the  day  of  the  Tre  Re  Magi,  or  Twelfth-day,  as  it  is 
prosaicauy  called  in  England. 

Here,  then,  are  six  whole,  and  three  half  holidays,  out  of  fourteen 
days,  in  whidi  the  great  necessities  of  life  are  lost  sight  of,  and  no 
doors  but  those  of  restaurants^  cafes^  or  perhaps  apothecaries,  re- 
main open. 

We  northern  travellers  are,  however,  well  pleased  to  find  that 
Rome  is  Rome  still,  and  still  wears,  in  spite  of  reform,  the  robes  of 
her  ancient  magnificence,  with  nothing  retrenched,  only  here  and 
there  a  little  addition  made.  The  guardia  civica,  with  its  glittering 
helmets,  dazzlinff  uniforms,  and  broad  Roman  swords,  does  but  in- 
crease the  splendour  of  the  ecclesiastical  processions,  and  harmonizes 
well  with  them ;  these  in  the  Christmas  of  1847  answered  precisely 
to  the  description  written  of  them  in  1447>  and  many  times  since ;  and 
for  this  reason  you  need  not  fear  my  inflicting  upon  you  a  description 
of  them  now.  The  thousands  of  wax- lights  and  the  decorated  crib, 
reminded  me  of  what  I  had  seen  in  Germany ;  but  here  grown 
people  were  kneeling  in  apparent  devotion  round  these  wax  and 
wooden  dolls,  which  looked  peculiarly  mean  and  paltry  in  Rome,  where 
art  ennobles  and  reconciles  us  to  so  much  that  would  be  otherwise 
painful.  They  who  were  kneeling  were,  it  is  true,  mostly  peasants, 
but  why  should  they  not  rather  kneel  to  the  exquisite  Madonnas 
and  holy  children  which  the  old  masters  have  called  into  life,  than 
to  those  newly  varnished  things  dressed  up  for  the  occasion.  I 
know  not,  but  it  seems  the  old  faith  clings  to  them  in  preference. 

On  the  New-year's-day,  a  beneficent  tramontana  had  driven 
away  the  rain  clouds,  piled  up  by  a  sirocco  of  long  continuance,  and 
to  enjoy  my  holiday,  I  ascenaed  the  tower  of  the  capitol,  and  gazed 
down  on  that  living  picture  of  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future, 
that  there  lay  spread  out  before  me.  Old  and  new  Rome  was  at  my 
feet,  bathed  in  golden  sunshine ;  and  while  in  my  native  north  all 
nature  lay  wrapped  in  snow,  here  the  fresh  green  was  every  where 
bursting  forth  among  the  palaces  and  temples,  and  all  over  the 


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248  CHRISTMAS   FESnvrnES   AT  ROME. 

vegetable  wardens  and  corn-fields  in  the  distance.  The  Alban  and 
Sabine  hills  seemed  floating  in  a  violet^coloured  vapour^  and  only 
the  highest  summits  of  the  Appenines  were  still  enwreathed  with 
wintry  clouds.  On  this,  the  first  day  of  January,  the  winter  seemed 
already  past ;  a  few  storms,  and  it  is  all  over ;  and  in  another  week 
Uie  whole  country  will  be  bursting  into  bud  and  blossom,  and  the 
violets  be  springing  up  amongst  the  ruins.  As  for  the  daisies,  oz- 
eyes,  &c.,  tney  nave  been  emulating  the  cypresses  and  olives,  and 
have  been  blowing  all  the  winter  through. 

Just  as  brief  has  been  the  stormy  period  of  the  political  world. 
The  douds  that  for  a  while  looked  threatening,  have  been  blown 
away,  and  all  is  again  confidence  and  peace.  The  Pope  and  his  sub- 
jects are  of  one  heart  and  one  mind ;  a  step  has  been  made  on  the  path 
of  progress ;  and  during  the  Christmas  holidays  even  Naples  and 
the  Tedeschi  are  forgotten,  and  pleasure  is  the  order  of  the  day. 

Many  of  my  readers,  perhaps,  have  witnessed  the  celebrated 
Christmas  markets  of  Germany,  which,  from  having  been  originally 
merely  an  accessory, — a  means  to  the  important  end  of  the  purchase 
of  playthings  and  presents, — have  come  gradually  to  be  themselves  a 
principal  feature  in  the  festivities.  In  Rome  there  is  a  finrand  market 
neld  for  a  similar  purpose,  but  twelve  days  later  than  Cnristmas-eve, 
namely,  on  the  eve  of  the  day  of  the  Tre  Re  Magi.  This  is  the 
Befana  market,  to  which  every  body  goes ;  for  even  those  who  don't 
intend  to  buy,  have  to  look  at  those  who  do.  By  the  by,  it  seems 
to  me  that  there  is  more  of  a  symbolical  meaning  in  the  time  chosen 
for  the  Roman  celebration,  for  there  does  not  seem  to  be  any  con- 
nection between  the  event  of  Christmas-day  and  the  making  of 
presents,  whilst  the  day  on  which  Kings  of  the  East  brought  their 
gifls  might  naturally  suggest  such  a  custom. 

This  incident  seems  especially  to  have  seized  on  the  imaginations  of 
our  forefathers,  for  throughout  the  whole  course  of  the  middle  ages, 
we  find  it  frequently  referred  to,  and  illuminated  with  all  the  most 

flowing  colours  of  fancy,  and  all  the  powers  of  art.  I  recollect  an  old 
lorentine  picture  on  this  subject,— I  believe  in  the  Academie  deUe 
Belle  i^r^t,— -where  the  artist,  not  content  with  lavishing  upon  the 
three  kings  all  the  most  gorgeous  colours  of  his  palette,  has  called 
in  the  aid  of  the  goldsmith  and  jeweller,  and  bestowed  on  them 
crowns,  swords,  spurs,  and  jewel-caskets  of  solid  gold,  and  gems. 

What  the  Befana  has  to  do  with  the  Three  Kings  of  the  £ast,  is 
more  than  I  can  tell,  or  whether  she  is  of  ancient  classic,  or  Lom- 
bardo-Gk>thic  origin,  but  she  is,  I  think,  certainly  of  the  same  family 
as  the  German  Knecht  Rupert,  and  comes  down  the  chimney  in  his 
fashion,  laden  with  presents  for  good  children,  in  the  night  between 
the  firth  and  sixth  of  January ;  and  I  am  told  that  in  the  excited  state 
of  the  imagination  of''  Young  Rome,"  there  is  not  wanting  testimony 
to  the  fact  of  her  having  been  not  only  heard  in  the  chimney,  but 
actually  seen  stepping  cautiously  out  with  her  arms  full  of  presents 
— ^but  then  of  course  witness  had  to  close  his,  or  her  eyes,  for  those 
who  watch,  it  is  known,  get  nothing.  The  morning  of  Twelflh-day, 
when  they  get  their  presents,  is  the  festival  of  the  children ;  the 
eening  before  that  of  the  present-makers,  the  grown  people. 
The  fair  is  held  in  the  little  market-place  of  St  Eustace,  a  space 
so  small  that  the  tender  care  of  the  Prussian  police  would  not  allow 
more  than  a  hundred  people  to  enter  at  a  time  lest  they  should  be 


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THE  CHILD  OF   GENIUS.  249 

crashed ;  yet,  here  thousands  stream  in  and  out,  without  even  any 
inconvenient  crowding  or  pushing^  which  is  a  fact  I  must  say  incom- 
prehensible  to  me,  as  well  as  that  none  of  the  fragile  wares  with  which 
the  booths  are  covered  should  be  thrown  down  and  trodden  upon,  and 
that  the  dealers  should  be  able  to  do  any  business  in  such  a  throng. 

From  the  market-place,  which  is  its  centre,  the  fair  radiates  in 
various  directions  into  the  neighbouring  streets  and  alleys — and  it  is 
really  a  striking  picture  which  is  presented  by  these  narrow  lanes, 
hemmed  in  by  massive  houses,  towering  to  the  skies,  till  they  look 
like  narrow  clifts  or  chasms  between  lofty  precipices,  and  below  a 
sea  of  light  from  thousands  and  thousands  of  wax  lights,  fading 
away  gradually  on  the  upper  stories.  There  is  someminff  in  the 
aspect  of  this  seemingly  subterranean  labyrinth,  that  reminds  one 
of  the  Grotto-worship,  and  of  Eleusinian  mysteries.  Some  magic 
spells  must  certainly  be  in  operation  within  it,  for  almost  everyone 
who  enters  its  precincts,  is  immediately  seized  with  a  kind  of  insanity, 
which  induces  him  to  suppose  himself  again  a  little  boy^  and  not 
onl^  buy  drums,  and  trumpets,  and  whisUes,  but  immediately  try 
their  powers,  and  so  squealing,  and  too-tooing,  and  row-de-dowing, 
about  the  fair,  to  tne  perfect  distraction  of  all  within  hearing. 

I  had  at  first  declared  my  intention  of  not  going  to  the  fair,  but 
my  host  looked  at  me  when  I  said  so,  with  such  astonishment  that 
I  felt  quite  ashamed  of  myself,  and  hastened  to  retract  my  words^ 
and  resolved,  being  at  Rome,  to  do  as  Rome  did.  I  noticed,  that 
among  the  rattletraps  exhibited  on  the  booths,  the  usual  policinellos, 
pantaloons,  &c  had  been  in  many  instances  replaced  by  images  of 
the  new  civic  guard  done  in  sugar,  in  wood,  or  in  lead ;  and  one 
feature  of  the  popular  life  in  Rome  which  I  was  here  struck  with,  I 
should  not  pass  over,  namely,  the  exemplary  order  and  mutual  po- 
liteness that  prevailed  amongst  this  noisy  merry  throng,  and  how,  in 
the  midst  of  the  wildest  tumult  of  fun  and  frolic,  no  word,  no  gesture, 
or  tone,  betrayed  any  of  that  brutal  coarseness  of  feeling  mostly  so 
painfully  observable  in  popular  sports.  I  noticed  the  same  thing  in 
Florence,  and  this  is,  in  my  opinion,  a  fact  well  worth  pondering 
upon. 


THE    CHILD    OF    GENIUS. 

BY   ALFRED   CROWaUILL. 

I  SAW  him  sitting  an  the  dark  way-side, 

Amidst  the  throng  a  solitary  child, 

With  ringlets  fair  and  eyes  so  blue  and  mild, 
But  on  his  Up  a  noble  conscious  pride ; 
His  dark  lash,  fSftlling  on  his  ruddy  cheek, 

Trembled  with  one  bright  sorrow-speaking  tear, 

Affection*s  gem  for  all  long-lost  and  dear ! 
What  destitution  did  these  signs  bespeak  I 
My  soul  felt  heavy  as  I  passed  him  by. 

And  saw  his  marble  limbs  in  tatters  shewn; 

And  heard  the  bw  and  grief-repressing  moan. 
While  kindred  tears  bedewed  my  pitying  eye! 
I  turned  to  question  one  so  all  forlorn. 

He  *d  gone!  but  where  or  how?  no  one  was  by. 

I  stopped,  to  wipe  the  tear  from  off  my  eye, 
And  found  my  handkerehie/wat  abopone! 


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250 


THE  SIX  DECISIVE  BATTLES  OP  THE  WORLD. 

BY    PB0FB880R    CBBA8Y. 

Those  few  battles  of  which  a  contrary  event  would  have  essentially  varied  the 
drama  of  the  world  in  all  iM  subsequent  scenes. — Hallam. 

No.  III.— THE  METAURUS. 

Quid  debeas,  oh  Roma,  Neronibus, 
Testis  Metaunim  flumen,  et  Hasdrubal 
Devictus,  et  pulcher  fugatis 
Ille  dies  Latio  tenebris,  &c. 

HoBATius,  It.  Od.  4. 

The  consul  Nero,  who  made  the  unequalled  march,  which  deceived  Hannibal, 
and  defeated  Hasdrubal,  thereby  accomplishing  an  achievement  almost  unrivalled 
in  military  annals.  The  first  intelligcnioe  of  his  return,  to  Hannibal,  was  the 
sight  a£  Hasdnibal's  head  thrown  into  his  camp.  When  Hannibal  saw  this,  he  ex- 
claimed with  a  sigh,  that  ^  Rome  would  now  be  the  mistress  of  the  world.'*  To  this 
victory  of  Nero*s  it  might  be  owinff  that  his  imperial  namesake  reigned  at  all  But 
the  intuny  of  the  one  hu  edipsed  uie  glory  of  me  other.  When  the  name  of  Nero 
is  heard,  who  thinks  of  Uie  consul  ?    But  such  are  human  things. — Bteok. 

About  midway  between  Rimini  and  Ancona  a  little  river  falls  into 
the  Adriatic^  after  traversing  one  of  those  districts  of  Italy  in  which 
the  present  Roman  Pontiff  is  striving  to  revive^  after  long  centuries 
of  servitude  and  shame,  the  spirit  of  Italian  nationality,  and  the 
energy  of  free  institutions.  That  stream  is  still  called  the  Metauro ; 
and  wakens  by  its  name  recollections  of  the  resolute  daring  of  an. 
cient  Rome,  and  of  the  slaughter  that  stained  its  current  two  thou- 
sand and  sixty  years  ago,  when  the  combined  consular  armies  of 
Livius  and  Nero  encountered  and  crushed  near  its  banks  the  varied 
host,  which  Hannibal's  brother  was  leading  from  the  Pyrenees,  the 
Rhone,  the  Alps,  and  the  Po,  to  aid  the  great  Carthaginian  in  his 
stern  struggle  to  trample  out  the  growing  might  of  the  Roman  Re- 
public, and  to  make  the  Punic  dominion  supreme  over  all  the  nations 
of  tl)e  world. 

The  Roman  historian,  who  termed  that  struggle  the  most  memo- 
rable of  all  wars  that  ever  were  carried  on,*  wrote  in  no  spirit  of 
exaggeration.  For  it  is  not  in  ancient,  but  in  modem  history,  that 
parallels  for  its  incidents  and  its  heroes  aie  to  be  found.  The  simili- 
tude between  the  contest  which  Rome  maintained  against  Hannibal, 
and  that  which  England  was  for  many  years  engaged  in  against 
Napoleon,  has  not  passed  unobserved  by  recent  historians.  *'  Twice," 
says  Amold,t  "  has  there  been  witnessed  the  struggle  of  the  highest 
individual  genius  against  the  resources  and  institutions  of  a  great 
nation ;  and  in  both  cases  the  nation  has  been  victorious.  For  seven- 
teen years  Hannibal  strove  against  Rome ;  for  sixteen  years  Napo- 
leon Bonaparte  strove  against  England :  the  efforts  of  the  first  ended 
in  Zama, — these  of  the  second  in  Waterloo."  One  point,  however, 
of  the  similitude  between  the  two  wars  has  scarcely  been  adequately 
dwelt  on.  That  is,  the  remarkable  parallel  between  the  Roman 
general  who  finally  defeated  the  great  Carthaginian,  and  the  English 

*  LiVT,  liih.  xxL  Sec.  1. 
t  Vol.  iii.  p.  62.    See  also  Alison,  pauim. 


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THE   SIX  DECISIVE   BATlliES   OF  THE   WORLD.        261 

general,  who  gave  the  last  deadly  overthrow  to  the  French  emperor. 
Scipio  and  Wellington  both  held  for  many  years  commands  of  high 
importance,  but  distant  from  the  main  theatres  of  warfare.  The  same 
country  was  the  scene  of  the  principal  military  career  of  each.  It 
was  in  Spain  tliat  Scipio,  like  Wellington,  successively  encountered 
and  overthrew  nearly  all  the  subordinate  generals  of  the  enemy  be- 
fore being  opposed  to  their  chief  champion  and  conqueror  himself. 
Both  Scipio  and  Wellington  restored  their  countrymen's  confidence 
in  arms,  when  shaken  by  a  series  of  reverses.  And  each  of  them 
closed  a  long  and  perilous  war  by  a  complete  and  overwhelming  de- 
feat of  the  chosen  leader  and  the  chosen  veterans  of  the  foe. 

Nor  is  the  parallel  between  them  limited  to  their  military  charac- 
ters and  exploits.  Scipio,  like  Wellington,  became  an  important 
leader  of  the  aristocratic  party  among  his  countrymen,  and  was  ex- 
posed to  the  unmeasured  invectives  of  the  violent  section  of  his  po- 
litical  antagonists.  When,  early  in  the  last  reign,  an  infuriated  mob 
assaulted  the  Duke  of  Wellington  in  the  streets  of  the  English  capital 
on  the  anniversary  of  Waterloo,  England  was  even  more  disgraced  by 
that  outrage,  than  Rome  was  by  the  factious  accusations  which  dema- 
gogues brought  against  Scipio,  but  which  he  proudly  repelled  on  the 
day  of  trial  by  reminding  tne  assembled  people  that  it  was  the  anni- 
versary of  the  battle  of  Zama.  Happily,  a  wiser  and  a  better  spirit 
has  now  for  years  pervaded  all  classes  of  our  community ;  and  we 
shall  be  spared  the  ignominy  of  having  worked  out  to  the  end  the 
parallel  of  national  ingratitude.  Scipio  died  a  voluntary  exile  from 
the  malevolent  turbulence  of  Rome.  Englishmen  of  all  ranks  and 
politics  have  now  long  united  in  affectionate  admiration  of  our  mo- 
dem Scipio :  and,  even  those  who  have  most  widely  differed  from 
the  Duke  on  legislative  or  administrative  questions,  forset  what  they 
deem  the  political  errors  of  that  time-honoured  head,  while  they 
gratefully  call  to  mind  the  laurels  that  have  wreathed  it.  If  a  pain- 
ful exception  to  this  general  feeling  has  been  recently  betrayed  in 
the  expressions  used  by  a  leading  commercial  statesman,  the  univer- 
sal disgust  which  those  expressions  excited  among  men  of  all  parties, 
has  served  to  demonstrate  how  wide-spread  and  how  deep  is  Eng- 
land's love  for  her  veteran  hero. 

Scipio  at  Zama  trampled  in  the  dust  the  power  of  Carthage ;  but 
that  power  had  been  already  irreparably  shattered  in  another  field, 
where  neither  Scipio  nor  Hannibal  commanded.  When  the  Metaurus 
witnessed  the  defeat  and  death  of  Hasdrubal,  it  witnessed  the  ruin  of 
the  scheme  by  which  alone  Carthage  could  hope  to  organize  decisive 
success, — ^the  scheme  of  enveloping  Rome  at  once  from  the  north 
and  the  south  of  Italy  by  two  chosen  armies,  led  by  two  sons  of 
Hamilcar.*  That  battle  was  the  determining  crisis  of  the  contest,  not 
merely  between  Rome  and  Carthage,  but  between  the  two  great 
families  of  the  world,  which  then  made  Italy  the  arena  of  their  oft- 
renewed  contest  for  pre-eminence. 

The  French  historian,  Michelet,  whose  '^  Histoire  Romaine  "  would 
have  been  invaluable,  if  the  general  industry  and  accuracy  of  the 
writer  had  in  any  degree  equalled  his  originality  and  brilliancy^ 
eloquently  remarks,  "  It  is  not  without  reason  that  so  universal  and 
vivid  a  remembrance  of  the  Punic  wars  has  dwelt  in  the  memories 
of  men.    They  formed  no  mere  struggle  to  determine  the  lot  of  two 

*  See  Arnold,  toL  iii.  387* 
VOL.  XXIlI.  T 


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THE   SIX  DECISIVE   BATTLES   OF   THE  WORLD. 

cities  or  two  empires ;  but  it  was  a  strife,  on  the  event  of  which  de- 
pended the  fate  of  two  races  of  mankind,  whether  the  dominion  of 
the  world  should  belong  to  the  Indo-Germanic  or  to  the  Semitic 
family  of  nations.  Bear  in  mind,  that  the  first  of  these  comprises, 
besides  the  Indians  and  the  Persians,  the  Greeks,  the  Romans,  and 
the  Germans.  In  the  other  are  ranked  the  Jews  and  the  Arabs,  the 
Phoenicians  and  the  Carthaginians.  On  the  one  side  is  the  genius  of 
heroism,  of  art,  and  legislation  :  on  the  other,  is  the  spirit  of  indus- 
try, of  commerce,  of  navigation.  The  two  opposite  races  have  every- 
where come  into  contact,  everywhere  into  hostility.  In  the  primi- 
tive history  of  Persia  and  Chaldea,  the  heroes  are  perpetually  en- 
gaged in  combat  with  their  industrious  and  perfidious  neighbours. 
The  struggle  is  renewed  between  the  Phoenicians  and  the  Greeks 
on  every  coast  of  the  Mediterranean.  The  Greek  supplants  the 
Phoenician  in  all  his  factories,  all  his  colonies  in  the  east:  soon  will 
theKoman  come,  and  do  likewise  in  the  west.  Alexander  did  far  more 
against  Tyre  than  Salmanasar  or  Nabuchodonosor  had  done.  Not 
contented  with  crushing  her,  he  took  care  that  she  never  should  re- 
vive ;  for  he  founded  Alexandria  as  her  substitute,  and  changed  for 
ever  the  track  of  the  commerce  of  the  world.  There  remained 
Carthage — the  great  Carthage,  and  her  mighty  empire, — mighty  in 
a  far  different  degree  than  Phoenicia's  had  been.  Rome  annihilated 
it  Then  occurred  that  which  has  no  parallel  in  history,— an  entire 
civilization  perished  at  one  blow— vanished,  like  a  falling  star.  The 
Periplus  of  Hanno,  a  few  coins,  a  score  of  lines  in  Plautus,  and,  lo, 
all  that  remains  of  the  Carthaginian  world  ! 

''  Many  generations  must  needs  pass  away  before  the  struggle  be- 
tween the  two  races  could  be  renewed ;  and  the  Arabs,  &at  for- 
midable rear-guard  of  the  Semitic  world,  dashed  forth  from  their 
deserts.  The  conflict  between  the  two  races  then  became  the  con- 
flict of  two  religions.  Fortunate  was  it  that  those  daring  Saracenic 
cavaliers  encountered  in  the  East  the  impregnable  walls  of  Constan- 
tinople, in  the  West  the  chivalrous  valour  of  Charles  Martel,  and  the 
sword  of  the  Cid.  The  crusades  were  the  natural  reprisals  for  the 
Arab  invasions,  and  form  the  last  epoch  of  that  great  struggle  be- 
tween the  two  principal  families  of  the  human  race/' 

It  is  difficult,  amid  the  glimmering  light  supplied  by  the  allusions 
of  the  classical  writers,  to  gain  a  full  idea  of  the  character  and  insti- 
tutions of  Rome's  great  rival.  But  we  can  perceive  how  inferior 
Carthage  was  to  her  competitor  in  military  resources,  and  how  far 
less  fitted  than  Rome  she  was  to  become  the  founder  of  concentrated 
centralizing  dominion,  that  should  endure  for  centuries,  and  fuse 
into  imperial  unity  the  narrow  nationalities  of  the  ancient  races,  that 
dwelt  around  and  near  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  sea. 

Though  thirsting  for  extended  empire,  and  though  some  of  her 
leading  men  became  generals  of  the  highest  order,  the  Carthagi- 
nians, as  a  people,  were  anything  but  personally  warlike.  As 
long  as  they  could  hire  mercenaries  to  fight  for  them,  they  had 
little  appetite  for  the  irksome  training,  and  the  loss  of  valuable 
time,  which  military  service  would  have  entailed  on  themselves. 

As  Michelet  remarks,  '*  The  life  of  an  industrious  merchant,  of  a 
Carthaginian,  was  too  precious  to  be  risked,  as  long  as  it  was  pos- 
sible to  substitute  advantageously  for  it  that  of  a  barbarian  n'om 
Spain  or  Gaul.     Cartha  e  knew,  and  could  t«ll  to  i  drachma,  what 


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III. — THE   METAURUS.  253 

the  life  of  a  man  of  each  nation  came  to.  A  Greek  was  worth  more 
than  a  Campanian,  a  Campanian  worth  more  than  a  Gaul  or  a 
Spaniard.  When  once  this  tariff  of  blood  was  correctly  made  out, 
Carthage  began  a  war  as  a  mercantile  speculation,  ohe  tried  to 
make  conquests  in  the  hope  of  getting  new  mines  to  work,  or  to 
open  fireah  markets  for  her  exports.  In  one  venture  she  could  afford 
!»  apoid  50,000  nMrcenaries,  m  another,  rather  more.  If  the  returns 
were  good,  there  was  no  regret  felt  for  the  capital  that  had  been 
sunk  in  the  investment :  more  money  got  more  men,  and  all  went  on 
well." 

We  perceive  at  once  the  inferiority  of  such  bands  of  condotlieri, 
brought  together  without  any  common  bond  of  origin,  tactics,  or 
cause,  to  the  legions  of  Rome,  which  at  that  period  were  raised 
from  the  very  flower  of  a  hardy  agricultural  population,  trained  in 
the  strictest  discipline,  habituated  to  victory,  and  animated  by  the 
most  resolute  patriotism.  And  this  shows  also  the  transcendency  of 
the  genius  of  Hannibal,  that  could  form  such  discordant  materials 
into  a  com}Mict  organised  force,  and  inspire  them  with  the  spirit  of 
patient  discipline  and  loyalty  to  their  chief,  so  that  they  were  true 
to  him,  in  his  adverse  as  well  as  in  his  prosperous  fortunes ;  and 
throughout  the  chequered  series  of  his  campaigns  no  panic  rout 
ever  disgraced  a  division  under  his  command,  and  no  mutiny,  or 
even  attempt  at  mutiny,  was  ever  known  in  his  camp. 

The  prestige  of  national  superiority  had  been  given  to  Rome  by 
the  cowardly  submission  of  Carthage  at  the  close  of  the  first  Punic 
war.  Faction  and  pusillanimity  among  his  countrymen  thwarted 
Hannibal's  schemes,  and  crippled  his  resources.  Vet  did  he  not 
only  replace  his  country  on  an  equality  with  her  rival,  but  gave  her 
what  seemed  an  overwhelming  superiority,  and  brought  Rome,  by 
her  own  acknowledgment,  to  the  very  brink  of  destruction. 

**  But  if  Hannibd's  genius  may  be  likened  to  the  Homeric  god, 
who,  in  his  hatred  to  Uie  Trojans,  rises  from  the  deep  to  rally  the 
fainting  Greeks,  and  to  lead  them  against  the  enemy,  so  the  calm 
courage  with  which  Hector  met  his  more  than  human  adversary  in 
his  country's  cause,  is  no  unworthy  image  of  the  unyielding  magna- 
nimity displayed  by  the  aristocracy  of  Rome.  As  Hannibal  utterly 
eclipses  Carthage,  so,  on  the  contrary,  Fabius,  Marcellus,  Claudius 
Nero,  even  Scipio  himself,  are  as  nothing  when  compared  to  the 
spirit,  and  wisdom,  and  power  of  Rome.  The  senate,  which  voted 
its  thanks  to  its  political  enemy,  Varro,  after  his  disastrous  defeat, 
"  because  he  had  not  despaired  of  the  commonwealth,"  and  which 
disdained  either  to  solicit,  or  to  reprove,  or  to  threaten,  or  in  any 
way  to  notice,  the  twelve  colonies  which  had  refused  their  accus- 
tomed supplies  of  men  for  the  army,  is  far  more  to  be  honoured  than 
the  conqueror  of  Zama.  This  we  should  the  more  carefully  bear  in 
mind^  because  our  tendency  is  to  admire  individual  greatness  far 
more  than  national;  and,  as  no  single  Roman  will  bear  compa- 
rison to  Hannibal,  we  are  apt  to  murmur  at  the  event  of  the  con- 
test, and  to  think  that  the  victory  was  awarded  to  the  least  worthy 
of  the  combatants.  On  the  contrary,  never  was  the  wisdom  of  God's 
Providence  more  manifest  than  in  the  issue  of  the  struggle  between 
Rome  and  Carthage.  It  was  clearly  for  the  ^ood  of  mankind  that 
Hannibal  should  be  conquered ;  his  triumph  would  have  stopped 
the  progress  of  the  world.    For  great  men  can  only  act  permanently 

T  2 


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264         THE   SIX   DECISIVE  BATTLES  OF   THE  WORLD. 

by  forming  great  nations ;  and  no  one  man,  even  though  it  were 
Hannibal  himself,  can  in  one  generation  effect  such  a  work.  But  where 
the  nation  has  been  merely  enkindled  for  a  while  by  a  great  man's 
spirit^  the  licht  passes  away  with  him  who  communicated  it ;  and 
the  nation,  when  he  is  gone,  is  like  a  dead  body,  to  which  magic 
power  had  for  a  moment  given  unnatural  life :  when  the  charm  has 
ceased,  the  body  is  cold  and  stiff  as  before.  He  who  grieves  over 
the  battle  of  Zama.  should  carry  on  his  thoughts  to  a  period  thirty 
years  later,  when  Hannibal  must  in  the  course  of  nature,  have  been 
dead,  and  consider  how  the  isolated  Phoenician  city  of  Carthage  was 
fitted  to  receive  and  to  consolidate  the  civilization  of  Greece,  or  by 
its  laws  and  institutions  to  bind  together  barbarians  of  every  race 
and  language  into  an  organized  empire,  and  prepare  them  for  be- 
coming, when  that  empire  was  dissolved,  the  free  members  of  the 
commonwealth  of  Christian  Europe."^ 

When  Hasdrubal,  in  the  spring  of  207  b.  c,  after  skilfully  disen- 
tangling himself  from  the  Koman  forces  in  Spain,  and,  afler  ^ 
march  conducted  with  great  judgment  and  little  loss  through  the 
interior  of  Gaul  and  the  formidable  passes  of  the  Alps,  appeared  in 
the  country  that  now  is  the  north  of  Lombardy,  at  the  head  of  troops 
which  he  had  partly  brought  out  of  Spain,  and  partly  levied  among 
the  Gauls  and  Ligurianson  his  way;  Hannibal  with  his  unconquered 
and  seemingly  unconquerable  army  had  been  eight  years  in  Italy, 
executing  with  strenuous  ferocity  the  vow  of  hatred  to  Rome,  which 
had  been  sworn  by  him  while  yet  a  child  at  the  bidding  of  his  father 
Hamilcar ;  who,  as  he  boasted,  had  trained  up  his  three  sons,  Han- 
nibal, Hasdrubal,  and  Mago,  like  three  lion's  whelps,  to  prey  upon 
the  Romans.  But  Hannibal's  latter  campaigns  had  not  been  signal- 
ized by  any  such  great  victories  as  marked  the  first  years  of  his 
invasion  of  Italy.  The  stern  spirit  of  Roman  resolution,  ever  highest 
in  disaster  and  danger,  had  neither  bent  nor  despaired  beneath  the 
merciless  blows  which  the  dire  African  dealt  ner  in  rapid  suc- 
cession at  Trebia,  at  Thrasymene,  and  at  Canns.  Her  population 
was  thinned  by  repeated  slaughter  in  the  field ;  poverty  and  actual 
scarcity  ground  down  the  survivors,  through  the  fearful  ravages 
which  Hannibal's  cavalry  spread  through  their  corn-fields,  their 
pasture-lands,  and  their  vineyards ;  many  of  her  allies  went  over 
to  the  invader's  side ;  and  new  clouds  of  foreign  war  threatened  her 
from  Macedonia  and  Gaul.  But  Rome  receded  not.  Rich  and  poor 
among  her  citizens  vied  with  each  other  in  devotion  to  their  country. 
The  wealthy  placed  their  stores,  and  all  placed  their  lives,  at  the 
state's  disposal.  And  though  Hannibal  could  not  be  driven  out  of 
Italy,  though  every  year  brought  its  sufferings  and  sacrifices,  Rome 
felt  that  her  constancy  had  not  been  exerted  in  vain.  If  she  was 
weakened  by  the  continued  strife,  so  was  Hannibal  also  ;  and  it  was 
clear  that  the  unaided  resources  of  his  army  were  unequal  to  the 
task  of  her  destruction.  The  single  deer-hound  could  not  pull  down 
the  quarry  which  he  had  so  furiously  assailed.  Rome  not  only 
stood  fiercely  at  bay,  but  had  pressed  back  and  gored  her  antagonist, 
that  still,  however,  watched  her  in  act  to  spring.     She  was  weary, 

*  Arnold,  vol.  iii.  p.  61.  The  above  is  one  of  the  numerous  bursts  of  eloquence 
that  adorn  Arnold^s  last  volume,  and  cause  such  deep  regret  that  that  volume 
should  have  been  the  last,  and  its  great  and  good  author  have  been  cut  off  with  his 
work  thus  incomplete. 


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III. — THE  HETAUBU8*  255 

and  bleeding  at  every  pore ;  and  what  hope  had  she  of  escape^  if  the 
other  hound  of  old  Hamilcar's  race  should  come  up  in  time  to  aid 
its  brother  in  the  death-ffrapple  ? 

Six  armies  were  levied  for  the  defence  of  Italy  when  the  long- 
dreaded  approach  of  Uasdrubal  was  announced.  Seventy-five  thou- 
sand Romans  served  in  the  fifteen  legions^  of  which,  with  an  equal 
number  of  Italian  allies,  those  armies  and  the  garrisons  were  com- 
posed. Upwards  of  thirty  thousand  more  Romans  were  serving  in 
Sicily,  Sardinia,  and  Spain.  The  whole  number  of  Roman  citizens 
of  an  age  fit  for  military  duty,  scarcely  exceeded  a  hundred  and 
thirty  thousand.  These  numbers  are  fearfully  emphatic  of  the  ex- 
tremity to  which  Rome  was  reduced,  and  of  her  gigantic  efforts  in 
that  great  agony  of  her  fate.  Not  merely  men,  but  money  and  mili- 
tary stores,  were  drained  to  the  utmost ;  and  if  the  armies  of  that 
year  should  be  swept  off  by  a  repetition  of  the  slaughters  of  Thra- 
symene  and  Cannae,  all  felt  that  Home  would  cease  to  exist  Even 
if  the  campaign  were  to  be  marked  by  no  decisive  success  on 
either  side,  her  ruin  seemed  certain.  Should  Hasdrubal  have  de- 
tached from  her,  or  impoverished  by  ravage  her  allies  in  north 
Italy ;  and  Etruria,  Umbria,  and  north  Latium  either  have  revolt- 
ed or  have  been  laid  ' waste,  as  had  been  the  case  in  south  Italy, 
through  the  victories  and  manoeuvres  of  Hannibal,  Rome  must 
literafiy  have  sunk  beneath  starvation ;  for  the  hostile  or  desolated 
country  would  have  yielded  no  supplies  of  com  for  her  popula- 
tion ;  and  money,  to  purchase  it  from  abroad,  there  was  none. 
Instant  victory  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  Three  of  her 
six  armies  were  ordered  to  the  north,  but  the  first  of  these  was 
required  to  overawe  the  disafi*ected  Etruscans.  The  second  army 
of  the  north  was  pushed  forward,  under  Porcius,  the  praetor,  to 
meet  and  keep  in  check  the  advanced  troops  of  Hasdrubal;  while 
the  third,  the  grand  army  of  the  north,  under  the  consul  Livius, 
who  had  the  chief  command  in  all  North  Italy,  advanced  more 
slowly  in  its  support.  There  were  similarly  three  armies  of  the 
south,  under  the  orders  of  the  other  consul,  Claudius  Nero. 

Hannibal  at  this  period  occupied  with  his  veteran  but  much- 
reduced  forces  the  extreme  south  of  Italy.  It  had  not  been 
expected  either  by  friend  or  foe,  that  Hasdrubal  would  effect  his 
passage  of  the  Alps  so  early  in  the  year  as  actually  occurred.  And 
even  when  Hannibal  learned  that  his  brother  was  in  Italy,  and  had 
advanced  as  far  as  Placentia,  he  was  obliged  to  pause  for  further  in- 
telligence, before  he  himself  commenced  active  operations,  as  he 
could  not  tell  whether  his  brother  might  not  be  invited  into  Etruria, 
to  aid  the  party  there  that  was  disaffected  to  Rome,  or  whether  he 
would  march  down  by  the  Adriatic  sea.  Hannibal  concentrated  his 
troops,  and  marched  northward  as  far  as  Canusium,  and  there  halted 
in  expectation  of  further  tidings  of  his  brother's  movements. 

Meanwhile,  Hasdrubal  was  advancing  towards  Ariminium  on  the 
Adriatic,  and  driving  before  him  the  Roman  army  under  Pordus. 
Nor  when  the  consul  Livius  had  come  up,  and  united  the  second 
and  third  armies  of  the  north,  could  he  make  head  against  the  in- 
vaders. The  Romans  still  fell  back  before  Hasdrubal,  beyond  Ari- 
minium, beyond  the  Metaurus,  and  as  far  as  the  little  town  of 
Sena,  to  the  south-east  of  that  river.  Hasdrubal  was  not  un- 
mindful of  the  necessity  of  acting  in  concert  with  his  brother. 


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256        THE   SIX   DECISIVE  BATTLES   OF  THE  WORLD. 

He  senr  messengers  to  Hannibal  to  announce  his  own  line  of 
march,  and  to  propose  that  they  should  unite  their  armies  in  South 
Umbria,  and  then  wheel  round  against  Rome.  Those  messengers 
traversed  the  greater  part  of  Italy  m  safety ;  but,  when  close  to  the 
object  of  their  mission,  were  captured  by  a  Roman  detachment ;  and 
Hasdrubal's  letter,  detailing  ms  whole  plan  of  the  campaign,  was 
laid,  not  in  his  brother's  hands,  but  in  those  of  the  commander  of 
the  Roman  armios  of  the  south.  Nero  saw  at  once  the  full  import- 
ance of  the  crisis.  The  two  sons  of  Hamilcar  were  now  within  two 
hundred  miles  of  each  other,  and  if  Rome  were  to  be  saved  the  bro- 
thers must  never  meet  alive.  Nero  instantly  ordered  seven  thou- 
sand picked  men,  a  thousand  being  cavalry,  to  hold  themselves  in 
readiness  for  a  secret  expedition  lu^ainst  one  of  Hannibal's  garrisons. 
As  soon  as  night  fell,  he  hurried  ^rward  on  his  bold  enterprise,  not 
against  any  pettv  garrison,  but  to  join  the  armies  of  the  north,  and 
crush  Hasdrubal,  while  his  brother  lingered  in  expectation  of  the 
intercepted  despatch.  Nero's  men  soon  learned  their  leader's  object, 
and  each  knew  how  momentous  was  its  result,  and  how  much 
depended  not  only  upon  their  valour,  but  on  the  celerity  of  their 
march.  The  risk  was  fearful  that  Hannibal  might  receive  informa- 
tion of  the  movements  of  the  armies,  and  either  follow  their  steps  in 
fatal  pursuit,  or  fall  upon  and  destroy  the  weakened  Roman  forces 
which  they  had  lefl  in  the  south.  Pressing  forward  with  as  rapid 
and  unintermitted  marches  as  human  strength,  nerved  by  almost 
superhuman  spirit,  could  accomplish,  Nero  approached  his  col- 
league's camp,  who  had  been  forewarned  of  his  approach,  and  had 
made  all  preparations  to  receive  this  important  reinforcement  into 
his  tents  without  exciting  the  suspicions  of  HasdrubaL  But,  the 
sagacity  of  Hasdrubal,  and  the  familiarity  with  Roman  warfare 
which  he  had  acquired  in  Spain,  enabled  him  to  detect  the  presence 
of  both  the  Roman  consuls  in  tbe  army  before  him.  In  doubt  and 
difficulty  as  to  what  might  have  taken  place  between  the  armies  of 
the  south,  and  probably  hoping  that  Hannibal  sJso  was  approaching, 
Hasdrubal  determined  to  avoid  an  encounter  with  the  combined 
Roman  forces,  and  retreated  towards  the  Metaurus,  which,  if  he  could 
have  passed  in  safety,  would  have  been  a  barrier,  behind  which  he 
might  safely  have  kept  the  Romans  in  check.  But,  the  Gaulish  re- 
cruits, of  whom  a  large  part  of  his  army  was  composed,  were  unsuit- 
ed  for  manceuvring  in  retreat  before  an  active  and  well-disciplined 
enemy.  Hotly  pursued  by  the  consuls,  Hasdrubal  wheeled  back,  and 
gave  them  battle  close  to  the  southern  bank  of  the  stream.  His  num- 
bers were  far  inferior  to  those  of  the  consuls  ;  but,  all  that  general- 
ship could  accomplish  was  done  by  the  Carthaginian  commander. 
His  Gauls,  who  were  the  least  trustworthy  part  of  his  force,  he  drew 
up  on  his  ]e(i  on  difficult  and  rising  ground  ;  his  Spanish  veterans 
formed  his  right ;  and  his  centre  was  composed  of  the  Ligurians,  before 
whose  necessarily  slender  array  he  placed  his  armed  elephants,  like 
a  chain  of  moving  fortresses.  He  seems  to  have  been  deficient  in 
cavalry, — an  arm  in  which  Nero's  reinforcement  gave  peculiar  strength 
to  the  Romans.  The  consuls,  on  the  other  side,  led  their  legions 
to  the  attack,  each  commanding  a  wing,  while  the  pretor  Porcius 
faced  the  Ligurians  in  the  centre.  In  spite  of  the  disparity  of  num- 
bers, the  skill  of  Hasdrubal's  arrangements,  and  the  obstinate  valour 
of  his  Spanish  infantry,  who  received  with  unyielding  gallantry  the 


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III. — ^THE  METAURU8.  257 

shock  of  Livius'  legions,  kept  the  issue  of  the  fieht  long  in  suspense. 
But  Nero,  who  found  thst  Hasdrubal  refused  his  left  wing,  and 
who  could  not  overcome  the  difficulties  of  the  ground  in  the  quarter 
Msigned  to  him,  decided  the  hattle  by  another  stroke  of  that  mili- 
tary genius  which  had  inspired  his  march.  Wheeling  a  brigade  of 
his  best  men  round  the  rear  of  the  rest  of  the  Roman  army,  Nero 
fiercely  charged  the  flank  of  the  Spaniards,  who  had  hitherto  held 
their  own  against  Livius  with  heavy  mutual  carnage.  The  charge 
was  as  suo^ssful  as  it  was  sudden.  Rolled  back  in  disorder  upon 
each  other,  and  overwhelmed  by  numbers,  the  Spaniards  and  Ligu- 
rians  died,  fighting  gallantly  to  the  last.  The  Gauls,  who  had  taken 
little  or  no  part  in  the  strife  of  the  day,  were  then  surrounded,  and 
butchered  almost  without  resistance.  Hasdrubal,  after  having,  by 
the  confession  of  his  enemies,  done  all  that  a  general  could  do,  when 
he  saw  that  the  victory  was  irreparably  lost,  scorning  to  survive  the 
gallant  host  which  he  had  led,  and  to  gratify,  as  a  captive,  Roman 
cruelty  and  pride,  spurred  his  horse  mto  the  midst  of  a  Roman 
cohort,  and,  sword  in  hand,  met  the  death  that  was  worthy  of  the 
son  of  Hamilcar,  and  the  brother  of  Hannibal. 

Success  the  most  complete  had  crowned  Nero's  enterprise.  Re- 
turning as  rapidly  as  he  had  advanced,  he  was  again  facing  the 
inactive  enemies  in  the  south  before  they  even  knew  of  his  march. 
But  he  brought  with  him  a  ghastly  trophy  of  what  he  had  done. 
In  the  true  spirit  of  that  savage  brutalitv  which  deformed  the  Roman 
national  character,  Nero  ordered  Hascurubal's  head  to  be  flung  into 
his  brother's  camp.  Ten  years  had  passed  since  Hannibal  had  last 
gased  on  those  reatures.  The  sons  of  Hamilcar  had  then  planned 
their  system  of  warfare  against  Rome,  which  they  had  so  nearly 
brought  to  successful  accomplishment.  Year  after  year  had  Hanni- 
bal l^n  struggling  in  Italy,  in  the  hope  of  one  day  hailing  the 
arrival  of  him  whom  he  had  left  in  Spain ;  and  of  seeing  his  brother's 
eye  flash  with  affection  and  pride  at  the  junction  of  their  irresistible 
hosts.  He  now  saw  that  eye  glazed  in  death,  and  in  the  agonv  of 
his  heart  the  great  Carthaginian  groaned  aloud  that  he  recognized 
his  country's  destiny. 

"  Meanwhile,  at  the  tidings  of  the  great  battle  Rome  at  once 
rose  from  the  thrill  of  anxiety  and  terror  to  the  full  confidence 
of  triumph.  Hannibal  might  cling  to  his  hold  on  Southern 
Italy  for  a  few  years  longer,  but  the  imperial  city,  and  her  allies, 
were  no  longer  in  danger  from  his  arms.  And,  after  Hannibal's 
downfall  the  Great  Military  Republic  of  the  ancient  world  met  in 
her  career  of  conquest  no  other  worthy  competitor.  Byron  has 
termed  Nero's  march  "  unequalled,"  and,  in  the  magnitude  of  its 
iconsequences,  it  is  so.  Viewed  only  as  a  militarv  exploit,  it  remains 
unparalleled  save  by  Marlborough's  bold  march  from  Flanders  to 
the  Danube,  in  the  campaign  of  Blenheim,  and,  perhaps,  also,  by 
the  Archduke  Charles's  lateral  march  in  170^9  by  which  he  over- 
whelmed the  French  under  Jourdain,  and  then,  driving  Moreau 
through  the  Black  Forest  and  across  the  Rhine,  for  a  while  freed 
Germany  from  her  invaders. 


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258 
SUMMER   SKETCHES  IN   SWITZERLAND. 

BT   MISS    C08TBLLO. 

Our  road  now  passed  beneath  the  foot  of  Mont  Brezon  and  its  tre« 
mendous  precipices,  almost  perpendicuhir,  leading  ns  to  Cluses,  the 
very  picture  of  desolation  ana  distress. 

Closes  seems  a  town  peculiarly  marked  out  for  the  rengeance  of  the 
Fire  King :  it  has  been  destroyed  over  and  over  again,  and  re-built 
only  to  be  re-destroyed.  It  is  now  two  years  since  its  last  demolition, 
which  swept  away  the  greatest  part  of  the  buildings.  Nothing  can 
exceed  the  state  of  misery  which  it  presents  at  this  moment ;  there 
lie  heaps  of  rubbish,  burnt  rafters  and  piles  of  stones  as  they  fell, 
blackened  and  ruined  walls,  half-houses  and  single  rooms  inhabited  by 
wretched-looking  peasants,  who  do  not  seem  to  have  the  heart  to  clear 
away  the  evidences  of  their  calamity.  This  place  has  long  been 
famous  for  its  population  of  watchmakers,  most  of  the  works  being 
made  here  whicn  supply  Geneva  with  its  esteemed  merchandise* 

Higher  and  higher  grew  the  mountains,  deeper  and  deeper  still  the 
precipices,  and  the  shades  of  night  overtook  us  oy  the  time  we  reached 
the  secluded  village  of  St.  Martin,  celebrated  for  the  glorious  view  of 
Mont  Blanc  from  its  bridge. 

We  slept  here  at  the  little  inn,  the  accommodations  of  which  are 
by  no  means  bad,  and  by  daybreak  resumed  our  journey.  I  had  pre- 
viously hurried  down  to  the  bridge  in  hopes  of  seeing  the  view,  as  a 
few  bright  peaks  had  shown  themselves  above  the  cirding  mountains, 
but  I  was  disappointed,  and  obliged  to  take  my  place  in  the  char^a-hanc 
which  was  to  carry  us  on  to  Chamouny,  as  larger  carriages  cannot  go 
along  the  remainaer  of  the  road.  A  iew  aiguilles  app^ured  fitfully, 
that  of  Goute  and  its  Dome,  but  Mont  Blanc  was  inexorable.  One 
of  the  highest  roads  I  had  yet  travelled  led  us  towards  Ch^de; 
the  woods  were  thick  below,  and  the  hedges  covered  with  wild  cle- 
matis, some  of  which  I  gathered  as  a  reminiscence  of  a  home  scene  of 
former  enjoyment  of  which  the  moment  reminded  me,  and  I  was  just 
beginning  to  rejoice  in  the  awakened  hope  of  fair  weather  from  a  sud- 
den gleam  and  the  apparition  of  several  fields  of  snow  directly  before 
us,  when  a  change  came  as  rapidly,  and  huge  grey  masses  of  cloud  hur- 
ried across  the  view,  shutting  it  out  altogether ;  a  few  drops  of  rain 
began  to  fall,  and  we  reached  the  village  of  Servoz  in  a  hard  shower. 
The  village  was  all  alive  with  a  wedding,  and  by  the  time  the  gay 
party  came  out  of  the  neighbouring  church,  the  rain  had  ceased,  and 
permitted  the  fluttering  procession  to  appear  in  all  its  splendour.  A 
train  of  young  women  came  forth,  very  neatly  dressed  in  black  or 
purple  petticoats,  with  their  white  broad  caps  filled  with  bright  flowers 
and  rich-coloured  ribbons,  their  cavaliers  having  gay  ribbons  in  their 
hats  also.  The  lively,  stout,  merry  bride  paced  joyously  along,  and 
every  face  was  smiling  and  happy,  as  they  greeted  us  where  we  sat  in 
our  chat'tt'-banc  waiting  for  horses. 

Scarcely  had  we  left  Servoz,  than  the  gloom  increased,  and  the  de* 
scending  rain  augmented  the  torrent  cascades,  which  tumbled  over  the 
rocks  in  our  path. 

Alas !  still  heavier  and  more  decided  grew  the  inauspicious  aspect 
of  our  star,  and  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  drove  into  Cha- 


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SUMMER  SKETCHES.  259 

mouny,  scarcely  able  to  distinguish  through  the  mist  the  silver  glacier 
de  Boraon,  which  announced  the  wonders  of  its  neighbourhood. 

In  a  Uvrent  of  rain  precisely  similar  to  that  which  a  few  years  be- 
fore had  ushered  me  into  the  deep  valley  of  the  Baths  of  Mont  Dore> 
then  first  visited^  our  char  drove  up  to  die  hotel,  and  we  were  assisted 
from  our  dripping  **  leathern  conveniency."    Out  of  a  countless  range 
of  rooms,  we  chose  those  that  suited  us,  had  a  blazing  fire  lighted,  and 
resigned  ourselves  to  our  feite.    All  that  day,  with  mtervab  of  about 
twenty  minutes,  the  rain  descended  with  indescribable  fury,  and  almost 
all  that  time  did  I  stand  at  my  window  watching  for  the  sight  of  a 
iriendly  ray  which  should  disclose  the  magic  picture  covered  by  an 
envious  curtain.      Those  eleams  came;  rapid,   and    beautiful,  and 
strangely  deceptive,  were  the  forms  they  exhibited,  a  thousand  shining 
aignilles  bristled  up  into  the  wreathing  clouds  which  waved  over  the 
blue  surface  of  the  most  lovely  of  glaciers,  now  showing  its  broad  motion- 
less waves  and  arrested  foam,  now  hiding  it  in  a  robe  of  transparent 
mist,  and  then  dropping  down  over  the  whole  scene,  and  descending 
once  more  to  swell  the  raging,  terrified  Arve  with  an  increasing  deluge. 
In  the  midst  of  one  of  the  most  violent  showers,  as  I  stood  regarding 
the  gambols  of  the  river  close  beneath  my  window,  the  apparition  of 
a  party  of  travellers,  drenched  and  fatigued,  and  looking  the  pictures 
of  woe  and  disappointment,  flashed  upon  my  sight.    There  were  three, 
and  one  was  a  female ;  they  bore  long  alpenstocks,  were  covered  with 
mud,  and  their  clothes  clung  dose  to  them  like  their  skin.   They  were 
returned  from  an  excursion  across  the  T^te  Noir  to  the  Jardin,  had 
passed  the  night  in  a  ckdlet  on  the  edge  of  the  ice,  had  had  nothing 
out  fog,  rain,  and  cold,  for  their  portion,  and  now  descended  to  Cha- 
mouny  drowned  and  dispirited.     We  could  not  but  congratulate  our- 
selves on  our  own  escape,  for  the  time  we  should  have  chosen  would 
have  been  that  selected  by  these  ill-foted  adventurers.     Still,  there 
was  little  to  boast  of  in  our  own  position,  except  shelter,  for  the  thir- 
teen thousand  feet  of  ice  above  us  was  as  distant  from  our  vision  as  if 
we  were  '*  in  England  far  beyond  the  sea." 

It  is  true  I  heard,  or  fancied  I  heard,  the  shrill  scream  of  an  ea^le 
over  the  great  glacier,  and  imagined  or  saw  the  flight  of  an  eaglet 
through  the  mist,  but  the  only  certainty  was,  that  the  rain  poured  in« 
cessantly,  and  no  hope  dawned  for  that  day. 

It  seemed  incredible  the  number  of  guests  at  the  table-d'kdle,  for 
the  inn  was  hushed  and  quiet  as  if  no  one  was  breathing  within  its 
walls.  All  were  telling  of  adventures,  but  none  appeared  in  spirits, 
and  looked  forward  with  apprehension  to  the  morrow.  There  were 
travellers  of  all  nations,  but  fewer  Enelish  than  usual,  as  was  the  case 
this  year  throughout  Switzerland,  owing  to  the  political  commotions 
which  continued  to  agitate  the  country.  We  ventured  out  for  a  few 
minutes  in  the  evening,  but  were  warned  by  a  peasant  to  return,  which 
we  did  just  in  time  to  escape  a  deluge,  and  were  forced  to  retire  to 
rest  unsatisfied  and  murmuring. 

At  daybreak  the  next  morning  I  looked  out  in  the  direction  of  the 
glaciers,  but  aU  was  dim  and  dreary,  and  sadly  and  sorrowfully  I  re- 
turned to  bed,  thinking 

<^  No  future  grief  could  touch  me  more." 

I  think  I  fell  asleep,  wearied  with  watching,  but  was  roused  by  a 
bright  light  in  my  room  and,  losing  not  a  moment,  I  was  again  at  my 
station,  now  indeed  repaid  for  severe  disappointment. 


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2tf>  SUHHBB   SKBTCHE8 

Before  me  curled  in  a  blase  of  songhioe  the  one,  broad,  asnre  wave 
of  the  Glacier  de  Bossen,  with  attendant  peaks  shining  with  liquid 
goikd  against  a  sky  intensely  blue  without  a  cloud.     A  long  line  of 

§  littering  points  ran  along  as  iar  as  I  could  see,  and  a  part  of  the  Mer 
e  Glace  itself  spread  out,  white  and  clear,  although  as  yet  untouched 
by  the  vivifyine  ray  whidi  brought  gladness  to  the  earth. 

No  time  was  lost  in  our  setting  forth  to  the  source  of  the  Anreyron, 
for  we  thought  it  possible  to  accomplish  that  object,  at  least,  during 
the  bright  moment  that  invited  us. 

We  soon  reached  the  fine  amphitheatre  of  rocks  at  the  foot  of  the 
glacier,  and  climbed  amoiwt  them  to  the  source,  which  is  rather 
curious  than  imposing :  a  nne  ice  bridge,  of  a  rich  blue  colour,  had 
fallen  only  a  few  days  before,  and  its  masses  were  lying  prone  amongst 
the  stones:  it  will  form  again  and  renew  the  beauty  of  the  scene 
which  now  suffers  from  its  alienee.  A  grove  of  very  large  high  pines  is 
at  the  edge  of  the  river,  and  here  we  left  our  char  while  we  wandered 
about  the  dry  bed  of  the  stream,  which  in  spring  must  present  a  very 
different  aspect  from  that  which  it  now  offered ;  for  no  water  was  to 
be  seen,  except  a  narrow  rivulet  of  intense  blue-green  trickling 
amongst  pebbles,  and  winding  round  huge  masses  of  stone. 

Of  course,  we  did  not  resist  the  im^rtunities  of  several  pretty  little 
vendors  of  mineral  treasures,  almost  infants,  with  soft  clear  blue  eyes, 
like  the  ice  above  them  and  round  lauehing  cheeks  as  bright  as  the 
rosv  hues  on  their  native  peaks.  Nor  did  we  fail  to  yield  to  the  temp- 
tation of  possessing  ourselves  of  others  more  elaborate,  offered  at  every 
shop  in  Chamouny  kept  by  the  numerous  guides. 

The  morning  continued  still  to  increase  in  splendour,  and  it  was 
pronounced  by  the  experienced  one  of  the  most  promising  that  had 
peen  known  in  Chamouny  during  the  summer.  Mules  and  horses  were 
instantly  in  requisition,  and  the  clatter  of  hoofs  and  the  sound  of  voices 
made  a  strange  contrast  to  the  disconsolate  stillness  of  the  day  before. 

While  other  travellers  were  departing,  and  our  mules  and  guides 
preparing,  we  hastened  to  explore  the  shops,  which  are  full  of  objects 
of  interest ;  and,  at  last,  it  was  with  infinite  joy  that  I  found  myself 
comfortably  seated  on  a  safe  saddle,  which  had  been,  according  to  cus* 
tom,  carenilly  visited  by  competent  authorities,  and,  encouraged  by 
the  assurances  of  two  of  the  best  guides  of  the  country  that  we  miffht 
reasonably  expect  beautifol  weather,  we  set  forth  on  the  most  exciting 
and  delightful  of  all  adventures,  a  visit  to  the  Mer  de  Glace. 

For  the  next  five  hours  we  were  ascending  the  beautiful  mountain 
on  the  summit  of  which  the  treasures  of  Mont  Blanc  are  spread  out  in 
all  their  glory.  We  had  two  guides  besides  our  usual  careful  attendant, 
and  were  joined  early  on  the  ascent,  by  a  very  pretty  interesting  young 
girl,  the  oaughter  ox  the  eldest  guide,  a  man  who  appeared  to  enjoy  a 
high  reputation  for  boldness  and  experience,  and  to  be  the  acknowledged 
h^  of  his  class.  He  had  been  three  times  to  the  summit  of  Mont 
Blanc  with  different  travellers,  and  narrowly  escaped  with  his  life  on 
a  sad  occasion,  when  three  persons  were  killed  by  the  sudden  fall  of 
an  avalanche :  he  was  himself  precipitated  into  an  ice  chasm,  and  was 
extricated  with  extreme  difficulty. 

''  When  I  was  drawn  out,"  said  he, ''  and  recovered  my  senses,  it 
was  to  see  the  three  bodies  of  my  dead  friends  lying  extended  on  the 
snow.     Ah !  that  was  a  sight  to  make  one  think  !  " 

He  was  very  grave,  and  the  fearful  dangers  he  had  gone  through  ap- 


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Uf  SWITZERLAND.  261 

peared  to  have  deeply  impressed  his  mind.  The  other  guide  was 
somewhat  of  a  dandy,  full  of  compliments,  and  culling  his  expressions 
as  if  he  intended  to  make  a  posy  of  them,  all  being  selected  appa- 
rently according  to  Mrs.  Malaprop's  plan  of  forming  ''  a  nice  derange- 
ment of  epitaphs." 

The  lively  young  girl  was  dressed  with  peculiar  neatness,  and  wore 
a  large  straw  hat,  ti^  with  blue  ribbons :  ^e  held,  like  the  others,  a 
long  alpenstock,  and  as  she  skipped  over  the  rugged  paths  she  appeared 
a  most  poetical  specimen  of  a  mountain  maiden.  Every  now  and  then 
she  paused  to  gather  wood  strawberries  which  grew  almost  on  the 
brink  of  the  glacier,  and  loaded  us  with  them  and  wild  flowers,  which 
we  admired,  and  kept  or  flung  away,  according  as  the  smoothness  or 
roughness  ii  our  road  inspired  us. 

It  is  very  toilsome,  but  extremely  exciting,  this  riding  up  the  almost 
perpendicular  mountain :  there  is  but  little  danger,  and,  with  so  many 
protectors,  it  would  have  been  absurd  to  fed  nervous :  nevertheless,  we 
met  with  one  adventure  which  might  have  gone  far  to  frighten  a  timid 
traveller;  a  little  more  courtesy  on  the  part  of  those  who  caused  the 
embarras  would  have  made  the  circumstaooe  an  ordinary  aflTair,  as  it 
was  there  was  some  peril  and  annoyance. 

We  had  just  reached  a  very  steep  comer  where  the  aigaag  road  was 
peculiarly  broken  and  rugged,  and  where  so  much  of  the  mould  had 
been  washed  away,  by  the  recent  rains,  that  the  path  was  quite  hollow, 
and  there  was  scarcely  standing  room  by  the  ude  of  a  twisted  tree 
which  grew  close  to  the  road  over  a  precipitous  descent :  at  this  mo- 
ment one  of  the  guides  ran  forward  and  shouted  to  a  party  descending 
on  mules,  b^^ng  them  to  pause  higher  up,  and  allow  us  to  pass,  as 
it  was  dangerous  to  meet  on  the  spot  where  we  stood. 

Regardless,  however,  of  his  request,  and  our  exclamations,  we  beheld 
two  persons  mounted,  coming,  as  it  were,  straight  down  upcm  our 
heads ;  the  eauestrians  movea  doggedly  on,  and,  as  they  approached 
nearer  shewea  by  their  looks  that  they  had  no  notion  of  making  way 
for  us.  As  quickly  as  they  could,  our  guides,  finding  further  remon- 
strance unavailing,  dragged  our  mules  on  one  side,  and  I  found  myself 
perched  almost  on  the  branches  of  the  old  tree,  while  the  invading 
lady  and  gentleman,  silent  and  sullen,  pushed  by,  their  saddle-girths 
being  ruddy  wrenched  by  close  contact  with  those  of  our  steeds  as 
they  forced  their  way  through  the  ravine.  On  went  this  singularly 
independent  pair,  without  a  word  of  comment—what  country  had  the 
honour  of  claiming  them  as  her  children  we  did  not  discover,  as  no 
word  issued  from  their  lips ;  and  we  were  left  to  conjecture,  while  our 
discomposed  girths  and  coverings,  which  had  been  displaced  on  their  on- 
ward march,  were  set  to  rights.  As  they  took  the  mside  they  would 
-have  been  perfectly  safe,  even  if  they  had  pushed  us  over  the  precipice, 
therefore  their  minds  remained  placid  while  ours  were  for  some  mo- 
ments considerably  agitated. 

We  soon  fi>rgot  this  incident  in  the  sublime  prospect  before  and 
around  us,  as  we  passed  through  woods  of  gigantic  pines,  and  saw  the 
iced  torrent  whose  course  we  had  been  following  upwards,  increasing  in 
volume  and  width.  At  length  we  reached  the  summit,  and,  dismount- 
ii^&  gA^e  our  steeds  to  the  care  of  the  mountain  maid,  and  proceeded 
at  once  to  the  brink  of  the  Icy  Sea. 

The  sun  was  brilliant,  without  a  cloud  over  the  whole  face  of  the 
intensely  blue  sky:   broad  fields  of  aaure  ice  ploughed  with  huge 


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262  SUMMER  {SKETCHES 

ridges^  were  shining  as  if  covered  with  heaped  up  jewels  — pealcs  and 
pinnacles  of  dazzling  snow  rose  up  from  the  motionless  waves,  and 
arrested  rivers  hung  between  them  as  if  another  minute  would  have 
sufficed  to  send  the  mass  of  their  foaming  waters,  with  headlong  course 
and  stunning  roar,  over  the  white  barrier  into  the  blue  and  boiling 
ocean  at  their  feet — ^bnt  there  was  no  sound — ^no  breath — no  commotion 
— no  stir — all  silent,  motionless— bound  in  an  eternal  chain — struck 
by  a  magical  spell — as  if  a  mighty  word  had,  in  one  second,  changed 
the  whole  order  of  nature,  and  stilled  the  wild  war  of  chaos  into  eter- 
nal quiet.  Far  awav  extended  plains  of  ice,  lost  amidst  a  forest  of 
snowy  aiguilles,  which  cut  against  the  blue  heaven  to  whose  recesses 
they  seemed  to  pierce.  Countless  shapes,  all  ice,  all  snow,  crowded, 
clear  and  glittering,  one  over  the  other,  peeping  down,  like  inquisitive 
spirits,  upon  the  shrouded  waters  at  their  feet,  and  huge  masses  of 
rocks  and  ^een  banks,  lay  peacefully  on  the  shore  as  if  belonging  to 
another  r^ion. 

It  was  so  warm  that  we  scarcely  required  any  additional  covering, 
and  after  sitting  for  a  time  on  a  bank  near  the  chdlet  at  top,  con- 
templating the  magnificent  prospect  before  us,  we  slowly  descended  to 
the  ice.  There  had  been  an  accumulation  of  snow,  durine  the  winter, 
and  its  descent  had  greatly  chaneed  the  face  of  the  glacier,  so  that  it 
was  now  more  than  usually  difficult  to  walk  on  it,  and  quite  impossible 
to  cross  it  as  is  sometimes  done. 

Between  each  mass  of  ice  was  a  huge  crevasse,  whose  sharply  cut 
walls  were  of  that  rich,  transparent,  blue,  such  as  is  seen  on  the  wings 
of  the  blue  kingfisher,  or  those  metallic  bosomed  creatures  which  belong 
to  the  humming-bird  tribe.  To  fall  into  such  a  beautiful  abyss  must, 
however,  be  a  fearful  thing,  and  I  shuddered  as  I  stood  above  them, 
and  looked  down  into  these  depths.  The  iced  snow  crunched  under 
my  feet,  but  I  found  climbing  amongst  the  ice  less  slippery  than  I 
expected,  and  I  can  quite  Imagine  the  delight  that  an  adventurous 
pedestrian  must  experience  when  scrambling  along  the  Jardin,  and 
scaling  the  higher  peaks  of  these  singular  regions.  To  be  in  such  a  spot 
without  intruders — 

**  Alone  in  this  vast  solitude. 
And  with  the  spirit  of  the  pUce  divide 
The  homage  of  its  grandeurs,** 

must  be  indeed  enjoyment  to  the  intrepid  wanderer,  for  even  sur- 
rounded by  assistance,  and  confused  with  help,  the  sublimity  of  the 
scene  does  not  lose  its  awful  magnificence. 

Strange  and  awful  is  it  to  stand  on  a  mass  of  ice,  one  of  a  thousand 
waves  in  a  petrified  sea,  and  look  round  on  the  stilled  waters  which 
hang  suspended  in  all  directions,  as  if  ready  to  rush  down  in  torrents  and 
overwhelm  all  nature.  Above  rise  peaks  and  javelins  of  shining  ice, 
from  one  to  the  other  of  which  the  eye  wanders  as  their  names  are 
called  over— individuals  of  the  frozen  army  of  a  frozen  region.  There 
are  the  Aiguilles  Rouges — the  Grand  Mulcts,  the  Egralets,  the  Blati^re, 
the  Grand  Periades,  Lechaud,  the  Chapeau,  the  Col  de  Balme,  the 
Breven,  the  Flegere — three,  seven,  thirteen,  thousand  feet  above  the 
icv  valleys — there  spread  far  away,  into  immeasurable  distance,  glacier 
after  glacier  —  du  Bois,  de  Bossons,  de  Tale^e,  surmounted  by  a 
thousand  glittering  pinnacles,  where,  above  them  all,  the  pure  trans- 
parent Aiguille  Verte 

*^  Points  with  its  taper  spire  to  heaven/* 


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IN  SWITZERLAND.  263 

After  lingering  for  some  time  in  the  sunshine,  on  these  icy  rocks 
we  descended  to  the  *'  Pierre  des  Anglais,"  so  called  from  the  two 
Englishmen,  Pococke  and  Wyndham,  who  first  reached  this  point  in 
1741.  A  century  has  not  changed  the  glaciers  round,  but,  since  our 
adFenturous  countrymen  first  gased  upon  the  wondrous  scene,  singular 
hare  been  the  facilities  afforded,  so  that  the  mere  ''  inquisitive  travel- 
ler "  can  now  penetrate  much  further  with  little  or  no  peril. 

As  I  had  no  scientific  purpose  to  attain,  and  the  one  grand  efiPect  had 
been  produced  upon  my  mind,  which  no  future  sight  of  ice  or  snow 
could  increase,  I  was  content  to  return  from  this  excursion  without 
venturing  further  amongst  the  icy  billows  of  the  Montanvert.  Most 
happily  had  this  charming  journey  been  accomplished,  and  feeling  that 
several  long  whole  summers  would  be  insufficient  to  shew  me  all  the  won- 
ders and  beauties  of  this  magic  region,  I  could  not  regret  leaving  enough 
for  a  little  life  to  come,  and,  after  a  lingering  look  at  the  sparkling 
Mer  de  Glace,  I  turned  away — ^with  pensive  steps  and  slow — and  took 
from  this  icy  Eden — ^my  solitary  way,  indulging,  meantime,  a  hope  that 
another  day  I  should  renew  my  slight  acquaintance  with  a  land  sacred 
to  thought  and  poetry. 

On  our  return  to  Ghamouny,  having  resisted  the  temptation  of 
taking  the  route  by  the  Tete  Noir,  because  the  day  was  too  far  ad- 
yanced  to  allow  of  our  crossing  the  mountains  without  risk  of  being 
benighted,  we  prepared  to  quit  the  scene  of  these  adventures,  and  to 
go  back  to  St.  Martin  for  the  night,  on  our  way  to  Geneva. 

While  waiting  for  our  char-a-banc  we  strolled  into  a  house,  where 
we  heard  there  was  a  newly  caught  chamois  to  be  seen.  We  mounted 
a  steep  flight  of  stairs,  and  there,  in  a  room  on  the  first  floor,  strewn 
with  hay,  stood  a  beautiful  little  creature,  worthy  of  being  the  cherished 
gazelle  of  Leila.  Its  terror  on  beholding  our  entry  was  extreme — ^its 
fine  dark  eyes  were  distended  with  alarm — ^its  limbs  shook,  and,  with  a 
rapid  spring,  it  perched  itself  on  the  ledge  of  the  chimney-piece,  sup- 
porting its  delicate  body  on  its  four  little  feet  placed  close  together,  as 
one  often  sees  the  pretty  animal  represented  on  a  pinnacle  of  ice  at 
some  high  point  of  its  native  mountains.  In  vain  we  tried  to  soothe 
and  encourage  the  wild  little  creature,  and  we  left  the  room  at  the 
suffgestion  of  the  proprietor,  who  seemed  dreadfully  afraid  of  its  making 
a  durt  and  clearing  the  stairs  at  a  bound.  I  felt  greatly  inclined  to 
wish  it  had  done  so,  for  the  mercenary  being  who  had  charge  of  it  did 
not  deserve  that  his  domicile  should  be  ennobled  bv  its  fiairy  presence. 

Quite  unmoved  by  our  raptures  at  his  graceful  inmate-— perhaps 
fearing  that  in  our  absence  of  mind  we  should  forget  his  claims  upon 
our  nurses — the  insensible  churl  had  hardly  shut  the  door  upon  his 
gazeue  than  he  began  to  clamour  for  Immediate  remuneration  for  the 
sight.  Indignantly  we  dispensed  the  gratuity,  reproaching  him  with 
his  greediness  which  could  not  wait  even  till  we  had  descended  his 
steep  stairs,  but  we  could  not  help  mischievously  assuring  him  that 
his  too  evident  anxiety  for  lucre  had  deprived  him  of  customers  for  his 
store  of  crystals,  which  he  now  wanted  to  recommend.  With  considerable 
satisfaction  we  went  into  a  rival  shop  before  his  eyes,  and  enjoyed  his 
vexed  expression.  There  is,  however,  much  less  clamouring  and  un- 
civil importunity  than  formerly  at  Ghamouny.  Visitors,  we  were 
told,  were  so  much  annoyed  by  incessant  demands  of  the  most  extrava- 
gant description,  that  at  last  they  became  wearied  with  the  infliction. 
Ghamouny  got  a  bad  reputation,  and  the  magistrates  were  obliged  to 


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264  SUMMBR  SKETCHES 

interfere  to  protect  stranffers.  The  innkeepers  found  that  they  had 
made  a  fatal  mistake,  and  were  obliged  to  reform  the  manners  of  the 
valley  altogether. 

Our  guides,  who,  by  the  bye,  all  kept  shops  of  their  own,  were  in- 
dignant at  the  want  of  confidence  exhibited  by  the  chamois  keeper,  and 
with  one  voice  reproved  him,  for  they  are  anxious  to  preserve  their 
acquired  character  for  civility  and  attention  which  they  really  deserve. 

We  quitted  Chamouny  late  on  a  fine  afternoon,  Inltndif;  t»  sietp 
at  St.  Martin  as  before,  and  now  all 

<«  The  vaUty  Ipy  wmiXmg  before  us,'* 

which  we  had  pmrf  the  day  before  in  torrents  of  rain,  and  clothed  in 
a  veil  of  ■nsC,  which  sliut  out  every  object.  From  every  height  leaped 
defni  aflver  cataracts  over  craggy  rocks  of  immense  size,  amidst 
awrmous  trees  and  ^een  banks.  We  left  the  beautiful  Glacier  de 
Bossons  behind,  shining  in  the  sun  with  all  the  colours  of  the  rain- 
bow. This  glacier  is  of  the  most  exquisite  form,  by  far  the  most  so 
of  any ;  it  hangs  in  one  immense  wave  on  the  rocks,  undulating  with 
graceful  curves,  and  crowned  with  a  diadem  of  foam,  which  is  changed 
to  icy  points  spreading  over  the  surfoce:  the  under  side  of  the  great 
billow  is  of  a  rich  clear  transparent  blue,  which  shines  out  against  the 
dark  moraine  beneath  it,  and  contrasts  with  the  dazzling  wUteness  of 
the  snows  above.  It  seems  always  to  shew  itself  in  profile,  and  ofiTers 
continual  beauties  in  rivalry  with  its  mighty  neighbour,  the  Mer  de 
Olaoe.  We  had  continued  our  way  for  some  time,  the  high  surround- 
ing mountains  hemming  in  the  valley,  and  shutting  out  all  view  but  of 
their  snow-capped  heaos,  when,  as  we  ascended  a  steep  road,  I  was 
struck  as  I  looked  from  the  char-^a^nc  at  the  sudden  apparition  of  a 
long  line,  of  what  seemed  to  be  a  gigantic  mass  of  white  clouds  shrined 
in  a  sky  of  dazzling  blue.  I  exclaimed  in  admiration  of  the  magnifi- 
cent sight :  the  char  was  stopped  and  the  truth  proclaimed. 

The  vision  was  nothing  less  than  the  stupendous  range  of  Mont 
Blanc  itself,  every  peak,  every  projection,  every  dome,  every  pin- 
nacle, all  clear,  unsnaded  and  distinct,  the  outline  so  sharply  cut 
against  the  sky  that  it  seemed  almost  too  tranckant  for  nature.  This 
gorgeous  spectacle  had  started  forth  as  if  by  miracle,  for,  it  appeared 
that  for  several  weeks  no  inhabitant  of  the  vaUey  had  beheld  a 
glimpse  of  the  fitful  monarch  who  now  deigned  to  shew  himself  to 
morUd  eyes  in  all  his  radiant  glory. 

Magnificent  as  the  Pyrenees  appear  from  Pan,  and  often  as  I  had 
gazed  upon  their  long  lines  and  on  the  graceful  contour  of  the  Pic  du 
Midi,  I  liad  never  b^n  so  startled  as  on  the  present  occasion  with 
the  transcendant  splendour  of  an  icy  range*  The  great  Dome  de 
Ooute,  with  a  glittering  aiguille  running  up  into  the  azure  sky,  a  broad 
surface  of  unblemished  snow  presenting  the  fanciful  form  of  an 
enormous  white  marble  cathedral  crowned  with  domes  and  spires 
seemed  within  reach  of  the  hand,  and  was  so  distinctly  visible  that  it 
appeared  as  if  the  eye  that  gazed  upon  it  were  endued  with  super- 
natural powers,  and  had  pierced  the  secrets  of  another  world. 

For  many  miles  the  same  stupendous  form  appeared  above  the  now 
insignificant  hills,  which  lay  at  its  base  like  mere  mounds  of  jagged 
rock,  and  still,  as  we  mounted,  the  great  snow  Alp  appeared  to  grow 
higher  and  higher,  catching  the  deep  rose  hues  and  nch  gold  of  the 
tetting-sun,  till  it  shone  with  a  lustre  more  than  earthly. 


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IN   SWITZERLAND.  266 

We  continued  onr  roote  by  the  beautiful  Col  de  Fordas,  and 
turned  aside  to  visit  the  pretty  secluded  baths  of  St.  Gervais,  where 
Mre  lingered  for  some  time,  delighted  with  the  situation  and  the 
arrangements  of  this  delicious  spot.  Behind  the  enormous  building 
which  is  a  perfect  town,  where  the  patients  reside  and  where  there  are 
fine  salons  and  ball-rooms  in  the  usual  style  of  public  baths,  a  winding 
path  leads  from  a  rustic  bridge  which  spans  the  roaring  torrent  of  the 
Bourant>  up  a  precipitous  hill,  the  toilsome  ascent  of  which  is  repaid 
by  the  sight  of  a  series  of  cataracts  of  the  most  picturesque  character, 
foaming  and  leaping  over  projecting  ledges  of  rock  embedded  in  a 
thick  wood. 

As  every  one  of  the  patients  at  this  extensive  establishment  was 
out  on  excursions  in  the  neighbourhood,  it  did  not  appear  that  they 
were  great  sufferers;  indeed,  the  marvellous  accounts  given  by  the 
guide  of  the  sudden  miracles  performed  it  would  seem  bv  the  very  sight 
of  the  valley  and  the  rapidity  with  which  ailments  oi  the  most  ob- 
stinate kind  disappearea  after  a  few  visits  to  the  wondrous  well, 
might  convince  one  that  the  waters  are  like  those  of  Zemzem,  able 
to  cure  all  evils. 

A  few  weeks  passed  in  this  charming  retreat  must  indeed  be  very 
enjoyable,  for  there  is  every  accommodation  that  the  most  fastidious 
could  require,  and,  moreover,  the  charges  are  more  moderate  than  at 
many  other  places  of  a  similar  nature. 

I  suppose,  to  jud^e  by  the  vastness  of  the  building,  the  coneoofW  of 
strangers  must,  at  times,  be  very  great,  but  so  uncertain  is  the  faivour 
of  robust  invalids,  that  I  understood  another  spring,  higher  up  the 
mountain,  not  long  since  discovered,  had  in  a  gf^ot  measure  super- 
seded that  of  St.  dervais,  for  several  seasons.  The  rival  is  said  to  be 
even  more  charmingly  situated  than  this,  but  I  cannot  imagine  that 
possible,  so  much  was  I  delighted  with  the  spot  altogether. 

We  were  rather  late  in  arriving  at  Sallenches,  our  road  being  at  the 
foot  of  a  most  beautiful  mountain,  whose  heights  and  glades  and  vales 
presented  scenery  as  fine  as  any  we  had  seen,  lighted  up  by  the  glow 
of  a  rich  sunset. 

Sallenches  is  another  Cluses,  a  town  reduced  to  the  very  depths  of 
ruin  and  desolation  in  consequence  of  a  frightful  conflagration  which 
has  burnt  almost  every  house  to  the  ground.  A  more  wretched  effect 
than  its  desolate  and  encumbered  streets  present  cannot  be  imagined, 
and  the  air  of  gloom  and  melancholy  on  every  countenance  was  really 
distressing. 

When  we  were  at  Chambery,  on  our  first  arrival  in  Savoy,  we  had 
heard  of  the  catastrophe  which  had  destroyed  this  devoted  place,  con- 
tinually subject  to  the  same  visitation ;  ana  we  were  told  also  that  the 
King  of  Sardinia  proposed  going  himself  to  Sallenches,  to  judge  of  the 
state  of  things,  of  which  he  must  have  heard  a  very  false  report  if  he 
thought  the  town  was  not  altogether  ruined.  It  seems,  however,  that 
he  never  came,  but  had  sent  persons  to  see  the  spot  and  to  afford  relief 
and  assistance. 

We  crossed  the  bridge  to  St.  Martin,  and  there  took  possession  of  the 
same  rooms  we  had  occupied  before,  being  very  tolerably  accommo- 
dated and  clamorously  welcomed. 


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266 


A  RAMBLE  ALONG  THE  OLD  KENTISH  ROAD  FROM 
CANTERBURY  TO  LONDON: 

ITS    CURIOSITIES     AND     ANTIQUITIB8. 
BY  HENRY   CURLING. 

««  Gadshill  lies  to-Dight  at  Rochester." 

Shakspeabe. 

Time  and  space  allow  not  of  dilation  upon  the  various  localities  and 
places  of  interest  during  a  ramble  over  the  scarped  and  counterscarp- 
ed  neighbourhood  of  Chatham.  The  dock-yard  would  itself  take  some 
time  to  look  over^  and  is  well  worthy  of  the  trouble.  Good  Queen 
Bess,  who  had  an  eye  to  business,  and  was  the  friend  and  patroness  of 
all  the  strongholds^  ramparted  towns,  and  forts  and  castles  in  the 
kingdom,  considered  the  dockyard  at  Chatham  worthy  of  favourable 
consideration.  She  paid  it  a  visit  of  inspection,  and  built  Upnor 
Castle  for  its  defence.  Discipline  and  good  regulation  are  so  appa- 
rent in  the  various  departments  and  spacious  store-houses  and  maga- 
zines, that,  immense  as  is  the  quantity  of  stores  deposited,  they  are 
arranged  with  such  <<  man-of-war''  precision,  that  whatever  is  needed 
can  be  procured  with  the  greatest  dispatch. 

The  hour  hand  of  the  antique-looking  clock  (which  seems  gibbeted 
in  the  narrow  street  of  Rochester)  pointed  to  eight  as  we  neared  it; 
The  clock-house  was  built  by  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel  in  1686,  who  also 
presented  both  house  and  clock  to  the  mayor  and  city  of  Rochester 
for  ever ;  and  to  this  day  the  inhabitants  entertain  a  great  feeling  of 
affection  and  respect  towards  the  great  round-faced  dial  and  its  do- 
micile. When,  however,  one  of  the  line  regiments  was  marching 
through  Rochester,  afler  disembarking  from  Spain,  this  clock  suffered 
some  little  damage  and  indignity  at  the  hands  of  the  officers.  It 
60  happened  that  a  huge  broad-wheeled  wagon  (one  of  those  bygone 
wains  of  the  Old  Kent  Road,  which  quicker  travel  has  altogether  su- 
perseded) was  stopping  for  a  short  time  during  the  night,  close  under 
the  clock  ;  and  as  several  officers,  rather  flustered  with  flowing  cups, 
were  returning  to  their  billets,  they  espied  the  wagoner  asleep,  and 
noted  the  gaudy  face  of  the  pendant  clock  above.  Full  of  the  delight 
consequent  upon  returning  to  their  native  land,  they  resolved  to  have 
a  spree  at  the  expense  of  the  wagoner ;  and  accordingly,  procuring  a 
coil  of  rope,  they  threw  it  over  the  clock ;  attaching  its  end  to  the 
tail  of  the  wagon,  they  then  quietly  ignited  their  cigars,  and  awaited 
the  event.  By  and  by,  the  parcels  for  which  the  wagon  had  been 
delayed  being  brought  by  his  mate,  the  man  gave  the  word  to  his 
team.  The  strong-jointed  beasts  pulled  at  the  huge  wagon,  the 
cable  strained,  the  great  clock  groaned  and  creaked,  but  not  a  foot 
did  the  concern  budge,  to  the  no  small  astonishment  of  the  burly 
wagoner,  who  dang'd  and  gee'd,  and  lashed  at  his  great  rhinoceros* 
shaped  beasts  in  an  awful  state  of  surprise  and  anger.  Meanwhile* 
the  noise,  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  the  creaking  and  straining  of  timber, 
and  the  slipping  up  of  the  poor  beasts  as  they  tugged  under  the  lash, 
aroused  the  sleepers  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  and  a  dozen  night- 


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CANTERBURY   TO   LONDON.  267 

capped  heads  were  poked  out  of  the  windows  on  either  tide>  in  front 
and  rear  of  this  exhibition,  just  as  the  ill-used  clock  began  to  separate 
from  the  building.  Crack,  crack,  went  the  great  beam  above,  and 
crack  crack  went  the  heavy  whip  of  the  carter.  The  wagon  began 
to  move,  and  the  clock,  drawn  all  awry,  would  next  minute  have  come 
down  smash  into  the  middle  of  the  road,  when  the  whole  turn-out 
was  arrested  by  a  dire  yell  from  the  citizens  at  the  windows.  '^  The 
dock  !  the  clock  I"  resounded  on  all  sides.  **  Stop  the  clock !  here, 
watch  !  watch  I  where 's  the  watch  ?  Stop  this  rascal  I  he 's  carrying 
off  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel's  clock,  house  and  all,  with  his  wagon  to 
London  I" 

For  the  truth  of  this  story  I  cannot  take  upon  me  to  vouch.  I  tell 
it  as  it  was  told  to  me  by  an  officer  of  Highlanders,  who,  as  is  usual 
in  such  cases,  affirmed  that  he  had  spoken  with  a  man  who  knew  an 
officer  who  had  seen  a  wagoner  who  was  first  cousin  to  the  identical 
driver  of  the  very  wagon  fastened  to  the  clock ;  and  it  only  remains 
to  be  told,  that  the  parties  who  were  guilty  of  this  attempt  upon  the 
clock  had  to  pay  a  heavy  sum  before  Uke  offended  dignity  of  the  chief 
magistrate  was  satisfied,  or  rather  appeased.* 

The  great  point  of  interest  at  Rochester,  although  it  remains  almost 
neglected  in  its  feudal  strength  and  grandeur,  we  think  is  the  castle. 
This  stupendous  record  of  chivalric  pride  and  power  seems  to  stand 
and  frown  with  contempt  upon  the  frivolity  of  the  dwellers  in  its  im- 
mediate vicinity.  Tower,  and  wall>  and  battlement  of  enormous 
strength  and  great  height,  here  have  maintained  their  stand  against 
the  efforts  of  time  and  the  vile  cupidity  of  man,  who  for  a  few 
paltry  guilders  would,  again  and  agam,  have  demolished  the  entire 
building,  and  levelled  it  with  the  ground.t  The  town  of  Rochester, 
which  is  inferior  in  point  of  antiquity  to  few  cities  in  England,  is 
situated  so  as  to  command  the  passage  of  the  Medway,  and  was  early 
a  place  of  importance.  Even  the  Britons,  after  their  rude  ideas  of 
fortification,  had  some  works  here  to  secure  the  passage  of  the  river. 
It  was  the  Durobrovis  of  the  Romans,  and  their  ancient  Watling 
Street  ran  directly  through  it.  Nay,  so  late  as  the  Conquest,  it  was 
still  governed  by  a  chief  magistrate  called  prcepositus. 

As  we  generally  look  out  for  the  most  ancient  hostel  wherein  to 
locate  ourselves,  we  in  this  instance  rode  into  the  inn-yard  of  the 
Crown.  Here,  as  the  shadows  of  evening  descended,  and  we  watched 
the  ostler  rubbing  down  our  steed,  we  found  sufficient  subject  of  con- 
templation. Before  us,  and  forming  one  side  of  the  Crown  yard, 
stood  a  long  deserted  buildine  which  had  once  been  the  principal  hos- 
tel of  the  town — a  rare  specimen,  we  believe,  and  almost  unique  in 
the  country. 

A  single  glance  at  the  outward  favour  of  this  interesting  building  is 
sufficient  to  show  its  great  antiquity,  whilst  a  'peep  within  immedi- 
ately presents  us  witli  a  perfect  specimen  of  an  interior  in  the  days  of 
Shakspeare. 

As  we  stepped  back  from  within  the  curious  apartment,  the  feeling 
which  had  impressed  itself  upon  us  from  the  moment  of  entering  the 

*  The  story  is  the  more  likely  to  be  correct,  at  the  dtizens  of  Rochester  are 
very  fond  of  relating  it  over  a  pipe  and  tankard. 

t  Rochester  CasUe  wonld  hare  been  demoKsbed  long  ago,  but  was  found  so 
strong  that  the  attempt  at  pulling  it  down  was  abandoned. 

TOL.  XXIII.  V 


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268  CANTERBURY  TO  LONDON. 

inn»ysrd>  every  part  of  which^  from  its  quiet  and  antique  appearance, 
seemed  sobered  down  and  removed,  not  only  from  the  bustling  new 
world  without,  but  altogether  from  the  present  times,  was  at  once 
explained.  A  sort  of  shadowy  recollection  of  the  place,  a  dreamy 
identification  of  the  locality,  on  entering  the  gateway,  had,  we  say 
from  the  first  moment  pervaded  tlie  mind,  which  the  sight  of  the  in- 
terior instantly  increased,  till  on  looking  round,  we  at  once  identified 
the  inn-yard  at  Rochester  where  GadshiU  tries  to  sift  the  two  car- 
riers, and  gather  the  hour  at  which  they  mean  to  start  for  London. 

We  wish  our  readers  fully  to  understand  us  in  saying  this.  We  are 
by  no  means  so  imaginative  as  to  believe  in  the  reality  of  a  scene  which 
never  existed  except  in  the  inimitable  fancy  of  die  poet.  But  we 
have  a  suspicion  that  Shakspeare  himself  hath  been  a  guest  in  thb 
hostel,  that  he  hath  mingled  amongst  the  bustle  of  this  inn-yard,  sat 
beneath  the  gaping  chimney  of  its  peculiar  kitchen,  and  perhaps  slept 
in  one  of  the  low-roofed,  lattice-windowed  rooms  above.  Nay,  perhaps 
the  scene  itself— that  inimitable  scene  in  **  the  inn-yard  at  Roches- 
ter"^was  written  whilst  he  was  a  guest  here.  Every  part  of  the  lo- 
cality is  Shakspearian.  The  massive  iron-studded  door,  the  windows, 
the  pigeon-houses  built  in  the  thick  walls,  the  huge  arched  entrance 
to  the  yard,  the  yard  itself,  bounded  by  the  massive  flanking  walls  of 
the  castle, — all  are  Elizabetlian,  and  at  the  same  time  give  an  im* 
pressive  feeling  somehow  connected  with  travel  and  travellers,  car- 
riers and  gentlemen  of  the  shade,  and  houses  of  entertainment  of  the 
jovial,  bustling,  good  old  days. 

Whilst  we  continued  to  contemplate  the  locality,  a  sulkv-Iooking, 
Quaintly  dressed  fellow,  having  a  **  discarded  serving-man"  look,  wan- 
dered into  the  yard,  and,  entering  the  old  deserted  kitchen,  sat  down 
upon  an  overturned  barrel,  and  commenced  puffing  away  at  a  short 
pipe  he  produced  from  his  pocket 

So  perfectly  in  keeping  was  the  man  with  the  building,  that  we  re- 
solvea  to  accost  him,  and  try  if  we  could  gather  anything  in  the  shape 
of  information,  and  accordingly  we  entered  the  apartment. 

*'  A  curious  old  building  this,"  we  said. 

'<  Ra-ther,"  said  the  fellow. 

•'  Very  old  is  it,  think  ye  ?"  we  enquired. 

"  Very  old,"  was  the  iJiort  answer  we  received. 

^*  How  old  do  you  suppose  ?" 

*'  What,  this  house  ?  how  old  ?  why,  as  old  as  the  castle  out  yonder, 
I  should  say.  There 's  neither  brick  nor  beam  altered  in  it  since  I 
was  a  boy,  as  I  can  see, — and  I've  been  here  sixty  odd  years,  off  and 
on." 

**  Do  many  people  come  to  look  at  it  ?**  I  said. 

**  Nobody  ever  comes  to  look  at  it,  now,"  said  the  fellow.  <<  For- 
merly, when  folks  used  to  come  through  Rochester,  there  was  a  power 
of  folk  had  a  curiosity  about  the  old  inn  here.  Sir  Walter  Scott  once 
came  whilst  I  was  a  postboy  in  this  yard,  years  and  years  ago.  He 
seemed  greatly  struck  with  the  look  of  the  noose  and  all  belonging  to 
it.  He  seemed  to  consider  more  of  this  inn  than  of  the  castle  itself — 
and  he  took  a  good  look  at  that,  too." 

'^Did  he  make  any  remark  about  it?"  I  enquired. 
.  **  Not  as  I  heard,"  said  the  man ;  <<  but  he  thought  a  great  deal 


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CANTERBURY  TO   LONDON.  269 

over  it  apparently.  He  examined  it  very  curious«Iike^  inside  and  out, 
sat  down  here  under  the  great  chimneyy  and  leant  his  chin  upon  his 
stick,  and  looked  very  fixed-like.  He  seemed  as  if  he  saw  a  whole 
company  in  the  room  before  him,  and  smiled  to  himself;  and  then  he 
got  up  and  clambered  up  them  old  steps  there,  into  the  rooms  above, 
where  the  old  beds  is,  and  walked  about,  and  looked  out  at  the  win- 
dows, and  sounded  the  flooring." 

«•  How  do  vou  know  it  was  Sir  Walter  Scott?"  we  enquired. 

**  I  don't  know  nothing  about  it,  except  from  hearsay,'*  said  the 
man.  "  I  was  one  of  the  down-boys  that  drove  him,  and  I  heard  he 
was  the  great  book-writer,  that  everybody  was  mad  about.  He 
hadn't  <  Sir*  tacked  to  his  name  at  that  time.  He  eamt  that,  I  heard, 
afterwards." 

A  flight  of  steps  at  the  extremity  of  the  Crown  yard,  and  which 
are  built  up  amidst  the  massive  ruins  of  the  ancient  outwarks,  leads 
into  a  sort  of  pleasaunce  of  the  cattle,  and  we  are  immediately  in  the 
vicinity  of,  and  indeed  within  the  **  roundnre  of  its  old  faced  walls. " 
Here  we  wander  amidst  fruit-trees  and  flowering  shrubs,  and  frag- 
ments of  outworks  of  immense  strength,  which  are  reared  on  the 
banks  of  the  rapid  stream,  in  a  perfect  scene  of  the  past.  Every 
glimpse  of  the  magnificent  tower  of  Gundulph,  as  we  approach  and 
catch  sight  i3ff  it  amidst  the  foliage  of  the  garden,  speaks  of  the  fierce 
contentions  of  the  Norman  period,  when  war  was  the  business  of  life, 
and  when  kings  struggled  amidst  a  bright  host  and  with  all  the  pomp 
and  pride  of  chivalry.  Helm  and  shield  and  blazoned  banner,  seem 
here  as  if  still  pertaining^  to  the  locality.  The  very  spirit  of  the 
knightly  and  the  noble — a  sort  of  Plantagenet  spirit,  if  we  may  so 
term  it, — seems  to  breathe  in  the  neighbouring  air.  Yes,  as  we 
gaze  around  we  feel  that  we  are  standing  upon  the  very  ground 
and  beside  those  thick-ribbed  towers  where  the  fierce  contentions  and 
desperate  conflicts — those  fiery  encounters  in  which  mailed  knights 
stood  in  opposition  hand  to  hand — had  taken  place  during  the  many 
sieges  this  castle  has  sustained.  Here,  in  the  immediate  neighbour- 
hood in  which  we  stand,  the  barons  of  England,  nav,  even  the  kings, 
with  the  lion  of  England  embroidered  upon  their  glittering  surcoats, 
from  seam  to  seam,  have  smote  with  deadly  hand,  amidst  the  din,  the 
turmoil,  and  the  shout  of  horrid  war — the  war  of  "  pomp,  pride,  and 
circumstance" — in  which  the  heraldic  device  upon  the  shield,  the  gon- 
fidon,  the  pennon,  the  bright  armour,  and  the  gilded  trappings  of  the 
combatants,  lent  a  lustre  to  the  deadly  and  raging  field,  which  our  own 
smoke-enveloped  and  noisy  system  knows  not. 


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270 
THE  TWO  FUNERALS  OF  NAPOLEON. 

BY   ROBERT   P08TAN8. 

But  where  is  he,  the  champion  and  the  child 

Of  all  that  *•  great  or  little,  wise  or  wild  ? 

Whose  game  was  empires,  and  whose  stakes  were  thrones  ? 

Whose  table  earth^-whose  dice  was  human  bones  ? 

Behold  the  grand  result  in  yon  lone  isle, 

And,  as  thy  nature  urges,  weep  or  smile.  —  Bykok. 

The  change  from  the  calm  to  the  tempest — from  the  deep  and  im- 
pressive solitudes  of  the  ocean,  to  the  busiest  haunts  of  men — from 
savage  to  civilized  life,  are  prominent  examples  of  the  mutations  to 
which  seamen  are  liable.  And  these  events  sometimes  follow  in  such 
rapid  succession,  and  are  of  such  varied  import,  that  even  their  truth- 
ful narration  appears  as  though  decked  in  the  borrowed  hues  of  fiction* 
To  use  an  uneasy  metaphor  a  sailor  may  be  said  to  be  a  naval  knight- 
errant,  with  the  ocean  for  his  steed,  upon  which  he  rides  in  quest  of 
adventure.  Thus  mounted,  he  sometimes  stumbles  upon  sights  as 
rare,  and  scenes  as  beautiful,  as  any  that  are  to  be  found  in  the  story- 
books of  yore ;  and  perhaps  there  are  but  few  who  will  deny  that  the 
pages  of  Dampier  and  Captain  Cook  are  as  full  of  chivalry  as  the 
Chronicles  of  Froissart,  or  that  before  the  majestic  daring  of  Columbus 
all  knighthood  pales. 

These  notions  received  additional  strength,  as  my  eyes  fell  upon 
the  subjoined  sentence  inscribed  in  an  old  log-book,  which  1  had  just 
then  discovered,  somewhat  mildewed  and  moth-eaten,  at  the  bottom 
of  a  sea-chest. 

The  Free  Trader  Homeward  Bound,  May  5th,  1821. 

A    MEMORABLE   EVENT   OCCURRED   THIS   DAT. 

Apparently,  at  the  time  these  words  were  written,  it  was  supposed 
that  they  would  be  sufficient  to  recall  to  the  memory,  at  a  future 
period,  the  circumstance  they  so  briefly  recorded,  for  mv  old  journal 
said  nothing  more  about  it.  True,  it  was  further  stated  lower  down 
on  the  same  page  with  genuine  nautical  brevity  under  the  head  of 
Remarks. 

''All  useful  sail  set** 

**  Bent  the  best  bower." 

"  Pumped  ship.*' 

*'  A  stranger  m  sight,"  to  which  was  added — 

«  Lat  by  observation  16'  30"  south,  Long.  5'  30"  west. 

Assisted  by  the  latitude  and  loneitude,  as  well  as  by  the  date,  I  made 
two  or  three  desperate  dives  into  Uie  stream  of  time,  hoping  to  rescue 
from  oblivion  the  '*  event,"  and,  after  a  hard  struggle,  succeeded  in 
bringing  to  the  surftce  of  my  memory,  the  leading  incident,  and  then 
the  whole  affair  floated  through  my  mind  with  all  the  freshness  of 
yesterday.  And,  perhaps,  it  will  be  as  well  to  state,  for  the  inform- 
ation of  the  general  reader,  that  on  the  day  in  question,  the  Free 
Trader  was  running  before  the  south- east  trade  wind,  over  that 
aqueous  portion  of  our  planet,  which  rolls  between  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  and  the  island  of  St  Helena. 


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TWO   FUNERALS   OF   NAPOLEON.  271 

From  what  has  been  stated,  it  was  evident  that  the  **  memorable 
event "  had  been  dismissed  in  too  summary  a  manner,  and,  indeed, 
circumstances,  after  the  lapse  of  a  quarter  of  a  century,  have  induced 
me  to  take  up  the  scanty  detail  at  that  moment,  when  the  morning 
sun  first  broke  upon  the  white  caps  of  the  waves,  with  the  Indiaman 
upon  their  crests  tipped  and  gilded  with  his  light. 

It  was  my  morning  watch,  and  I  recollect  leaning  over  the  capstan, 
and  lapsing  into  one  of  those  paradoxical  states,  when,  although  at- 
tending to  nothing  in  particular,  yet  almost  every  object  within  the 
range  of  our  senses  undergoes  a  sort  of  dreamy  observation.  I  could 
see  the  man  at  the  helm,  and  note  how  firm  he  kept  the  plunging 
ship  in  hand,  his  sinewy  grasp  seemed  by  a  secret  intelligence  to 
impress  his  will  upon  the  vast  mass  of  the  vessel.  Without  disturbing 
the  process  of  observation,  a  shoal  of  porpoises  would  occasionally 
rush  along,  pursuing  their  earnest  and  busy  passage  at  a  velocity,  com- 
pared with  which  the  progress  of  the  swift  ship  was  tardiness  itself, 
for  I  could  hear  the  hissing  of  the  crisp  sea  as  it  curled  into  a  crescent 
of  foam  beneath  her  bows.  Then  came  the  busy  hum  of  the  **  morn- 
ing watch,**  mingling  with  the  welcome  sound  of  "  eight  bells,"  and  the 
merry  whistle  of  the  boatswain  piping  to  breakiast.  The  motion  of  the 
rolling  vessel — the  fireshness  of  the  delicious  south-east  trade — the 
thoughts  of  home — the  dancing  waters,  and  the  sparkling  sunshine, 
each  of  these,  in  their  turn,  would  for  a  moment  slightly  arrest  the 
attention,  but  vigilance  is  a  cardinal  virtue  in  old  Neptune's  domain, 
and  bustling  times  were  close  at  hand.  A  ship  in  the  middle  of  the 
Atlantic,  with  a  rattling  south-easter,  whistling  through  the  rigging, 
is  not  the  bed  where  day-dreaming  can  be  indulged  in  with  im- 
punity, and  so  it  soon  appeared,  for  a  hoarse  voice  from  the  main  top- 
mast cross-trees,  as  if  by  magic,  dispelled  the  illusion,  and  brought 
my  senses  to  their  duty. 

"Sail,  ho  I** 

"  Where  away?"  was  the  prompt  demand. 

**  Right  ahead,"  returned  the  seaman.  *'  I  make  her  out  a  full 
rigged  ship  lying  to." 

The  oflicer  of  the  watch  had  barely  time  to  apply  his  "  Dollond,** 
in  the  direction  indicated,  when  the  man  aloft  was  again  heard 
shouting. 

"  Land  on  the  larboard  bow." 

As  the  Free  Trader  had  been  traversing  the  ocean  for  weeks, 
with  nothing  to  relieve  the  eye,  but  ''The  blue  above,  and  the  blue 
below,"  the  excitement  which  was  caused  by  the  discovery  of  the 
stranger,  coupled  with  the  sudden  cry  of  <<Land,"  is  not  surprising. 
For  it  is  in  the  deep  solitudes  of  the  ocean,  that  man  most  keenly 
feels  how  dependent  he  is  upon  his  kind  for  happiness.  In  such 
situations  the  most  trifling  incident  arrests  the  attention — a  floating 
spar,  or  even  an  old  tar-barrel,  become  objects  of  speculative  curiosity. 

Accordingly,  as  we  neared  the  strange  ship,  the  cut  of  her  canvas, 
and  the  mould  of  her  hull,  were  critically  examined  by  the  more  ex- 
perienced seamen,  who  can  generally  guess  from  the  appearance  they 
present,  not  only  the  nation  to  which  a  ship  belongs,  but  her  occupa- 
tion also.  But,  on  the  present  occasion,  they  were  puzzled  to  give  a 
reason  why  a  large  vessel  like  the  stranger,  should  be  lying  to, 
just  where  she  was,  (that  seemed  the  mystery)  and  apparently  waiting 
our  approach. 

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272  THE  TWO   FUHSBALS 

Thk  quiet  bearing  lasted  antfl  the  Free  Trader  was  in  the  act 
of  passing  the  strange  Tessd,  and  then,  as  if  suddenly  roused  out  o€ 
her  lethtfgy,  a  thin  ▼olome  of  white  sinoke  was  seen  curling  out  of 
one  of  her  forwaid  ports.  The  explosion  was  followed  hy  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  flag,  which,  after  fluttering  for  an  instant,  blew  steadily 
out,  and  much  to  our  sattsfiurtion,  di^aycd  the  blue  fi^  and  red 
cross  of  the  English  ensign. 

«<  What  ship's  that?"  bellowed  a  loud  Toice  from  our  formidable 
looking  neighbour,  who  had  ranged  alongside  the  Indiaman  dose 
enough  to  be  within  hailing  distance. 

"The  Free  Trader." 

"  Where  from  ?  "  was  demanded. 

*'  Calcutta,  and  bound  to  London,"  replied  our  captain. 

^ Do  you  intend  calling  at  the  island?" 

**Yes!" 

"  Then  send  a  boat  on  board  his  majesty's  frigate,  the  Blossom,  for 
instructions,"  was  demanded  in  tones  that  left  no  doubt  what  would 
be  the  result  of  a  ikiii  i  iiiniiTTrmaa  _ 

An  interchange  of  vbits  speedily  folfdwed  between  the  frigate  and 
the  Indiaman,  and  soon  after  they  were  sailing  side  by  side  in  the 
direction  of  the  land,  keeping  company  untU  the  Free  Trader  had 
received  such  sailing  directions  as  enabled  her  to  stand  in  for  the 
island  alone.     The  frigate  then  took  up  her  cruising  ground  as  before. 

It  would  require  but  a  slight  stretch  of  the  imagination,  to  convert 
the  perpendicular  cliffs  of  St.  Helena  into  the  enormous  walls  o^  a 
sea-girt  castle.  There  is  an  air  of  stem  and  solemn  gloom,  stamped 
by  nature  upon  each  rocky  lineament,  that  reminds  one  of  the  cha- 
racteristics of  a  stronghold.  Not  a  sign  of  vegetation  is  outwardly 
visible.  Headland  after  headland  appears,  each  in  its  turn  looking 
more  repulsive  than  those  left  behind.  The  sea-birds,  as  they  utter 
their  discordant  screams,  seem  afraid  to  alight,  but  wheel  about  the 
lofty  summits  of  the  bald  rocks  in  a  labyrinth  of  gyrations ;  while  an 
everlasting  surf,  as  it  advances  in  incessant  charges  at  their  base, 
rumbles  u{)on  the  ear  in  a  hollow  ceaseless  roar. 

It  was  during  the  operations  of  working  the  Free  Trader  round 
one  of  the  poinu  of  the  island,  that  the  heavy  booming  sound  of  a 
large  gun  was  heard,  slowly  borne  up  against  the  wind  over  the 
surface  of  the  sea.  As  the  sun  was  just  then  dipping  in  the  bosom 
of  the  Atlantic,  it  was  generally  thought  on  board  to  be  the  evening- 
gun.  But  again  the  same  solemn  heavy  sound  floated  by  on  the  wind. 
Again  and  again  it  came  in  measured  time,  when  at  length,  as  we 
cleared  the  last  projecting  headland,  the  roadstead  and  the  town  came 
suddenly  into  view.  At  the  same  time  the  colours  at  the  fort  on 
Ladder  Hill,  and  on  board  the  admiral's  ship  the  Vigo,  of  74  guns, 
were  seen  fluttering  at  half-mast,  denoting  the  d^th  of  some  per- 
son of  distinction. 

While  sailing  into  our  berth,  and  after  the  anchor  had  fixed  us  to 
the  land,  the  reporu  of  the  cannon  came  upon  us  at  intervals.  Their 
sounds  seemed  bodeful  of  some  great  event.  We  all  looked  in- 
quiringly for  some  explanation,  but  before  any  positive  intelligence 
had  reached  the  ship  from  the  shore,  surmise  after  surmise  had  given 
way  to  a  settled  conviction ;  for  by  one  of  those  inscrutable  impulses 
of  the  mind,  every  man  in  the  Free  Trader  felt  assured  those  island 
guns  announced  the  death  of  Napoleon. 


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OF  NAFOIJXW.  273 

Our  luspense  was  brief,  for  soon  after  the  anchor  was  down,  a  shore 
boat  came  alongside,  containing  an  official  person,  to  demand  the 
nature  of  our  wants,  and  he  confirmed  our  suspicions.  This  intelli^ 
gence,  ahhough  anticipated,  created  a  feeling  of  disappointment,  as 
every  individual  in  the  ship  had  speculated  during  the  voyage  upon 
the  chance  of  seeing  Napoleon  alive.  However,  by  an  easy  transition, 
now  that  he  was  dead,  we  wondered  whether  we  should  be  permitted 
to  witness  his  funeral ;  but  as  no  communication  was  allowed  from 
the  ships  in  the  roads  to  the  shore  between  the  hours  of  sundown  and 
sunrise,  we  were  obliged  to  pass  the  night  in  conjecture.  Under 
these  circumstances,  we  were  scarcely  prepared  for  the  news  that 
reached  us  early  in  the  morning.  It  was  a  general  notice  to  all 
strangers  and  residents,  informing  them  that  they  were  permitted  to 
visit  the  island  and  witness  the  ceremony  of  Uie  body  of  General 
Buonaparte  as  it  lay  in  state. 

After  the  lapse  of  six-and-twenty  years,  and  now,  when  the 
passions  of  that  mighty  conflict  which  filled  Europe  in  the  early 
part  of  the  century  are  extinct,  it  would  be  difficult  to  make  the 
present  generation  comprehend  the  profound  emotions  which  this 
news  had  upon  those  who,  like  ourselves,  happened  to  be  at  St. 
Helena  at  this  eventful  period.  Consequently,  on  the  second  dav 
after  Napoleon's  death,  nearly  every  individual  on  the  island,  as  well 
as  those  in  the  different  vessels  at  anchor  in  the  roads,  repaired  to 
Longwood,  the  place  where  he  died. 

Of  course  the  house  was  thronged  with  people,  but  as  the  greatest 
order  prevailed,  I  was  soon  in  the  room  with  all  that  was  left  of  the 
roost  wondrous  man  of  modem  times.  Suddenly  coming  out  of  the 
glare  of  a  tropical  sun  into  a  partially  darkened  room,  a  few  moments 
elapsed  before  the  objects  were  properly  defined.  Gradually,  as  the 
contents  of  the  apartment  tumbled  into  shape,  the  person  of  Napo- 
leon, dressed  in  a  plain  green  uniform,  grew  out  of  the  comparative 
gloom,  and  became  the  loadstar  of  attraction. 

He  was  lying  on  a  small  brass  tent  bedstead,  which  had  been  with 
him  in  most  of  his  campaigns.  I  found  it  impossible  to  withdraw  my 
eyes  for  an  instant  from  his  countenance :  it  caused  in  me  a  sensation 
diifficult  to  define,  but  the  impression  can  never  be  forgotten.  There 
was  a  crucifix  on  his  breast,  and  by  its  side  glittered  a  large  diamond 
star,  the  brilliancy  of  which  strangely  contrasted  with  the  pallid  face 
of  the  dead.  The  skin  was  of  a  most  intense  whiteness,  and  looked 
like  wax. 

What  struck  me  as  most  strange  was  the  mean  appearance  of  the 
surrounding  furniture,  and  of  the  ^getting  up"  of  the  cerenaony. 
Few  people  in  England,  or  indeed  in  France,  would  credit  the  dilapi- 
dated state  of  the  apartment.  It  was  literally  swarming  with  rats  and 
other  vermin.  There  appeared,  however,  to  be  no  want  of  respect  to 
the  memory  of  the  dead  hero,  whatever  might  have  been  his  treat* 
ment  when  living.  But  the  knowledge  of  this  tardy  justice  did  not 
prevent  a  comparison  between  his  fallen  state  in  that  rat-pestered 
chamber*  and  the  magnificence  and  power  with  which  imagination 
invested  him  when  living.     And  although  it  may  be  idle  to  compare 

*  It  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  after  Napoleon's  body  was  opened,  his  heart 
was  placed  in  a  vessel  in  this  room,  and  that  during  the  night  a  rat  devoured  a 
large  portion  of  it. 


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874  THE  TWO   FTJNlEBALS 

tlie  deeds  of  a  great  man  with  the  appearance  of  the  man  himself, 
yet  it  is  what  most  of  us  are  prone  to  do ;  and  on  this  occasion  it  was 
impossible  to  avoid  falling  into  the  practice,  for  possibly  the  results 
of  a  comparison  could  not  be  more  striking.  Napoleon  at  Austerlitz 
or  Jena,  with  continental  Europe  at  his  feet,  and  Napoleon  lying  dead 
in  that  miserable,  poverty-stricken  room,  presents  to  the  dullest 
imagination  a  theme  pregnant  with  emotion.  It  was  indeed  difficult 
to  understand  how,  even  by  the  proverbial  instability  of  fortune,  that 
insensible  form,  lying  in  its  utter  helplessness,  could  ever  have  been 
the 

'^  Man  of  a  thousand  thrones 
Who  strew'd  oar  earth  with  hostile  bones.*' 

Solemnly  and  sternly  the  reality  forced  itself  upon  all,  and  I  felt  that 
I  was  reading  a  journal  of  true  romance,  so  absorbing,  so  wretched, 
that  if  I  was  to  confine  my  studies  to  man^  it  would  be  unnecessary 
to  peruse  a  second  volume  to  grow  perfect  in  knowledge  or  reflec- 
tion. 

The  time  allowed  for  the  visitors  to  remain  in  the  chamber  was 
very  limited,  and  condensed  observation  into  a  passing  glimpse.  This 
could  not  well  have  been  otherwise,  as  every  individual  on  the  island 
was  anxious  to  obtain  even  a  momentary  view  of  one  who  had  attracted 
so  large  a  portion  of  the  attention  of  the  world.  And  not  the  least 
singular  spectacle  seen  on  that  day,  was  the  motley  group  whidi 
Napoleon*s  fame  had  drawn  afound  his  funeral  couch.  For  although 
St  Helena  on  the  map  may  at  first  appear  to  be  a  secluded  spot,  yet 
in  reality  it  is  not  so.  A  glance  or  two  is  sufficient  to  assure  us  that 
it  is  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  great  highway  of  the  world,  where 
the  necessities  of  commerce,  and  the  wants  and  hazards  inseparable 
from  a  seafaring  life,  are  the  means  of  bringing  together  the  antipodes 
of  the  human  race.  And  if  the  dense  masses  of  people  which 
thronged  to  his  second  funeral  at  a  more  recent  period,  in  his  own 
dear  France,  were  wanting,  their  deficiency  in  numbers  was  in  some 
sort  compensated  by  the  variety  of  men ;  or  if  there  was  not  a  multi- 
tude, there  was,  at  least,  a  medley  of  curious  gazers. 

Foremost  in  intelligence  were  the  French  and  English ;  but  apart 
from  these  stood  the  wondering  African  negro, — the  uncouth  Hotten- 
tot from  the  Cape — the  yellow  Brazilian  from  South  America — the 
fierce-looking  Lascar  from  Bengal — and  the  quiet,  inoffensive  Chinese 
from  remotest  Asia.  Some  of  these  knew  but  little  of  Napoleon's 
renown,  but,  being  inoculated  with  the  prevailing  emotion,  they  came, 
like  the  more  intellectual  European,  to  gaze  upon  the  embers  of  that 
dazzling  meteor,  the  blaze  of  which  had  so  recently  expired. 

The  same  tincture  of  corruption  dyes  all  mortality,  and  hero  dust 
as  well  as  common  clay  soon  becomes  offensive  in  a  tropical  climate. 
Even  on  the  second  day  af^r  his  death,  it  was  already  time  he 
should  have  been  soldered  up.  With  a  knowledge  of  this  fact,  the 
.  Governor-General  had  ordered  the  funeral  to  take  place  on  the  9th, 
thus  allowing  only  four  days  to  elapse  between  his  death  and  his 
burial. 

In  the  meantime,  the  spot  where  the  pioneers  were  digging  the 
grave,  became  an  object  of  mingled  curiosity  and  veneration ;  second 
only  in  importance  to  the  illustrious  hero  who  was  so  soon  to  make 


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OF  NAPOLEON.  275 

it  hifl  abidiBg  place.  It  was  close  to  a  small  spring,  of  which 
Napoleon  always  drank,  and  occasionally  he  break&sted  beneath  the 
shade  of  two  willows  that  bend  over  the  bubbling  waters.  The  grave 
was  singularly  made.  It  was  formed  very  wide  at  the  top,  but 
sloped  gradually  inwards,  having  the  appearance  of  an  inverted 
pyramid.  The  lowest  part  was  chaknbered  to  receive  the  coffin,  and 
one  large  stone  covered  the  whole  of  the  chamber.  It  was  said  that 
this  covering  was  taken  from  the  floor  of  the  kitchen  at  Longwood, 
vrhere  it  had  been  used  as  a  hearthstone  in  front  of  the  fire-place ; 
though  why  it  should  have  been  removed  for  such  a  purpose  it  is  dif-  ] 
ficult  to  comprehend,  for  the  island  is  not  deficient  of  the  requisite 
material.  The  remaining  space  was  to  be  filled  up  with  solid 
masonry,  clamped  together  with  bands  of  iron.  These  precautions, 
it  appeared,  were  intended  to  prevent  the  removal  of  the  body,  as 
much  at  the  request  of  the  French  as  of  the  governor  of  the  island. 

Divested  of  the  associations  connected  with  his  fame.  Napoleon's 
funeral  at  St.  Helena  was  a  simple,  though  heartfelt  affair.  His  long 
agony  on  that  sunburnt  rock  commanded  the  reverence  of  every  be- 
holder. Consequently,  on  the  9th,  all  the  inhabitants  and  visitors  on 
the  island  flocked  to  the  line  of  march.  Like  many  others,  I  selected 
a  prominent  position  on  the  shoulders  of  a  hill,  from  whence  the 
solemn  procession  could  be  traced,  as  it  threaded  its  way  through 
the  gorges  and  ravines  of  this  picturesque  place,  on  its  way  to  the 
grave.  The  coffin  was  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of  English  grena- 
diers, and  followed  by  the  soldiers  who  had  contributed  more  towards 
his  downfall  than  those  of  any  other  nation.  Their  solemn  tread  and 
grave  deportment  contrasted  strongly  with  the  heartfelt  sorrow  of 
Count  Montholon  and  General  Bertrand,  who  bore  the  hero's  pall. 
Madame  Bertrand  followed  next,  in  tears,  and  then  came  Lady  L^^we 
and  her  daughters,  in  mourning ;  the  officers  of  the  English  men- 
of-war  next,  and  then  the  officers  of  the  army ;  the  Governor- General 
and  Admiral  Lambert  closing  the  reaf.  The  66th  and  20th  Regi- 
ments of  Infantry,  the  Artillery,  and  the  Marines,  were  stationed  on 
the  crests  of  the  surrounding  hills ;  and  when  the  body  was  lowered 
into  the  tomb,  three  rounds  of  eleven  guns  were  fired.  And  thus 
the  great  soldier  of  France  received  the  last  tribute  of  respect  in 
honour  of  his  achievements  from  the  hands  of  his  most  constant,  but, 
as  he  described  them,  the  most  generous  of  his  enemies. 

The  last  years  of  Napoleon's  life,  except  so  far  as  they  derived  a 
gloomy  and  awful  importance  from  the  remembrance  of  his  terrific 
career  of  blood  and  power,  were  as  insignificant  as  his  first.  Ho  could 
neither  act  upon,  or  be  acted  upon  by  the  transactions  of  the  world 
He  seemed  to  be  buried  alive.  Kept  as  he  was  in  close  custody  by  a 
power,  with  whose  strength  it  was  useless  to  cope,  and  whose  vigilance 
there  was  little  chance  of  eluding. 

On  the  following  morning  the  sounds  of  labour  were  heard  from 
every  quarter  of  the  Free  Trader,  and  the  long  drawn  songs  of  the 
mariners  were  rising  in  the  cool  quiet  of  the  early  dawn.  Then  com- 
menced the  heavy  toil  which  lifts  the  anchor  from  its  bed ;  the  ship 
once  more  released  from  her  hold  upon  the  land,  stood  actoss  the 
Atlantic  for  England,  and  long  ere  noon  the  sun-blistered  rock  of 
St.  Helena  was  shut  out  from  our  view,  by  the  rising  waters  in  which 
it  seemed  to  submerge.     And  thus  ended  the  ^'memorable  event" 


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876  THE  TWO   FUNERALS 

which  formed  such  a  singular  episode  in  the  otherwijBe  monotonous 
voyage  of  the  Free  Trader. 


On  an  intensely  cold  morning,  some  twenty  years  after  the  oocur- 
rences  ahove  narrated,  I  was  proceeding  to  Pans  as  fast  as  a  French 
diligence  could  carry  me.  After  passing  through  a  lonff  winter's 
night,  cramped  and  stiffened  for  want  of  exercise,  it  was  wiui  feelings 
approaching  delight  that  I  beheld  the  French  capitaL  But  as  the 
vehicle  neared  the  gay  metropolis,  it  was  impossible  to  avoid  being 
surprised  at  the  appearance  of  the  populace.  Every  bodv  was  going 
towards  Paris,  no  one  appeared  to  be  going  in  any  other  direction. 

The  multitude  increased  as  we  progressed,  and  when  the  diligence 
entered  the  Boulevard,  it  was  with  great  difficulty  the  lumbering 
vehicle  was  ureed  through  the  living  mass.  On  either  side  of  us  was 
a  dense  crowd  of  heads,  eagerness  pictured  on  every  countenance. 
Amid  the  jabber  arising  from  so  large  an  assemblage,  was  heard  the 
rolling  sound  of  artillery,  mingling  strangely,  nay  wildly,  with  the 
solemn  tolling  of  the  great  bell  of  Notre  Dame,  which  every  now  and 
then  fell  upon  the  ear,  without  mingling  with  the  great  tide  of  sound, 
but  each  vibration  seemed  distinct  in  its  isolation.  It  was  impossible, 
from  the  vexed  and  confused  nature  of  the  turmoil,  arising  from  bells, 
guns,  and  drums,  to  form  an  idea  whether  the  people  were  celebrating 
a  holiday,  a  spectacle,  or  a  revolution. 

Most  human  feelings  are  contagious,  and  I  was  soon  inoculated 
with  a  desire  to  mix  with  the  crowd,  and  see  what  was  going  on. 
Accordingly,  as  soon  as  the  diligence  arrived  at  the  Messagene,  I  left 
my  carpet-bag  in  the  custody  of  an  official,  and  set  forth  to  satisfy  my 
curiositT.  Once  feurly  in  the  throng,  I  was  soon  urged  along  the 
Place  de  la  Bourse,  and  ftom  thence  up  the  Rue  Vivienne  to  the 
Boulevard  des  Italiennes,  happy  in  having  availed  myself  of  any 
change,  whether  of  sentiment  or  situation,  which  would  rouse  my  half- 
frozen  blood  into  action,  and  enable  me  to  compete  with  a  temperature 
ten  degrees  below  freezing. 

Forward,  forward,  along  the  interminable  Boulevard,  I  was  forced 
by  the  dense  mass,  and  extrication  became  hopeless.  That  broad 
thoroughfare  seemed  to  be  the  main  channel  through  which  flowed  the 
living  tide,  and,  as  it  was  continually  being  fed  by  the  streets  on  either 
side,  it  ultimately  was  crowded  to  a  dangerous  degree. 

At  the  magnincent  church  of  the  Madeleine,  a  divided  opinion  acted 
upon  the  people,  and  gave  me  scope  for  action.  I  followed  that  sec- 
tion whose  destinies  led  them  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  where  I 
had  scarcely  arrived,  when  preparations  of  an  uncommon  description 
came  at  once  into  view. 

Salvos  of  artillery  were  still  heard,  or  rather  they  had  never  ceased ; 
the  bells  also  tolled  incessantly,  and  tiiat  intolerable  beat  of  the  French 
drum,  mixed  with  the  noise  arising  from  a  crowd  of  thousands  of 
Frenchmen,  was  most  bewildering.  But  as  well  as  the  confusion 
would  permit  observation  of  the  surrounding  objects,  it  seemed  that,  on 
each  side  of  the  broad  avenue  of  the  Champs  Elysees,  large  statues  had 
been  raised,  each  symbolical  of  some  mental  attribute,  such  as  justice, 
valour,  fortitude,  and  the  like,  and  between  their  colossal  figures  mag- 
nificent tripods  of  a  great  height  were  erected,  supporting  vases  which 
were  filled  with  flames. 


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or  NAPOLEON.  277 

The  spectacle  had  approached  its  crisis  when  I  had  arrived  at  the 
Place  de  la  Ccnoordey  and  my  position  afforded  me  a  good  view  up  the 
avenne*    In  the  distance^  dense  columns  of  horse  and  foot  soldiery 
mrere  slowly  marching,  preceded  by  bands  of  military  music,  playing 
acfelemn  airs.     Cdnmn  after  column  paraded  by.     The  whoJe  diivalry 
o£  France  had  assembled  to  do  homage  to  some  dearly-loved  object,  for 
ev^y  class  of  French  soldiers  had  sent  its  representative,  and  every 
department  of  the  kingdom  its  deputy.    The  procession  appeared  in- 
terminable.   On  came,  in  every  variety  of  unifdurm,  the  soldiers  of 
IIodie>  of  Moreau,  Jourdan,  MauBena,  and  Angereau,  of  Davoust,  Ney, 
Murat,  Kleber,  and  Keilerman.     Fragments  of  all  "  arms  "  of  the 
Imperial  Guard  were  there  represented,  strangely  mingled  with  the 
picturesque  dresses  of  Mamelukes  and  guides. 

At  len^  a  moving  tower  of  floble  plumes,  rolled  by  upon  golden 
wheels,  drawn  by  sixteen  horses.  Immediately  following  came  the 
Royal  Family  of  France  and  the  great  ministers  of  state,  decorated 
with  glittering  stars  and  orders. 

Twenty  years  back  I  had  witnessed  the  funeral  obsequies  of  this 
remarkable  man,  for  of  course,  by  this  time,  I  knew  that  it  was  the 
second  burial  of  Nap<^eon  at  which  I  was  a  chance  spectator.  Since 
then  a  great  alteration  had  taken  place  in  the  affairs  of  Europe.    A 

Quarter  of  a  century  of  profound  peace  had  rendered  the  entente  cat" 
tale  apparently  perfect.  British  ships  of  war  no  longer  muzzled  the 
mouth  of  every  French  port  fi-om  Dunkerque  to  Toulon.  The  correc- 
tion was  done,  and  the  rod-was  burnt,  and  in  the  fulness  of  time  came 
the  crowning  act  of  grace,  when,  as  M.  de  Remusat  stated  in  the 
Chambre  de  Deputes,  England  had  magnanimously  consented  to  the 
proposal  of  the  French  nation,  to  return  the  remains  of  Napoleon, 
thus  surrendering  the  trophy  of  the  most  unparalleled  struggle  in  mo- 
dern history.*  And  yet,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  when  France 
was  receiving  from  British  generosity  a  boon  which  she  could  not  ob- 
tain by  any  physical  appliance,  the  law  and  medical  students  of  Paris 
displayed  a  base  and  inramons  hostility  a^^ainst  the  country  which  was 
in  the  very  act  of  returning,  with  a  nobb  and  chivalrous  sentiment, 

*  An  amusing  act  of  gasconade,  the  performance  of  which  rumour  awarded  to 
the  Prince  de  JoinviUe,  was  freely  commented  upon  in  naval  circles  about  this 
period.  It  will  be  remembered,  that  his  Royal  Highness  was  dispatdied  by  the 
French  government  in  the  Belle  Poule,  the  finest  frigate  in  their  service,  to  con- 
vey the  remains  of  Napoleon  from  St.  Helena  to  France.  After  the  exhumation 
of  the  body,  which  was  performed  in  the  presence  of  many  English  and  French 
officers,  the  features  of  Napoleon  were  recognised,  contrary  as  it  was  stated,  to 
French  expectation.  The  coffin,  after  being  placed  in  a  sumptuous  one  brought 
from  Europe,  was  conveyed,  after  many  compliments  upon  the  honour  and  good 
faith  of  England,  on  boajrd  the  Belle  Poule,  which,  with  its  sacred  freight,  soon 
after  put  to  sea.  The  faith  of  p^ffide  Albion  was  not  so  bad  as  expected.  A  few 
weeks  after  the  French  frigate  had  taken  her  departure  from  St.  Helena,  and  was 
nearing  the  coast  of  Europe,  an  English  frigate  hove  in  skrht,  and  perceiving  a 
French  ship^f-war,  she  bore  down  upon  her,  to  speak  her.  From  some  unexplain- 
ed reason,  the  Prince  imagined  she  might  be  sent  to  capture  the  precious  relic  he 
had  on  board  the  Belle  Poule,  and  rushing  on  the  quarter-deck,  he  ordered  hiscrew  to 
quarters,  and  prepared  for  action.  A  woi3,  however,  from  the  captain  of  the  English 
frigate  was  enough  to  dispel  the  gallant  princess  vain  alarms,  and  the  explanations 
which  soon  foUowed,  afforded  the  British  tars  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  distorted  view 
the  Frenchmen  had  of  English  faith.  This  rumoured  bravado  of  the  prince,  is 
nevertheless  in  perfect  keeping  with  his  Bobadil  pamphlet,  published  soon  after 
his  return  with  Napoleon's  remains,  in  which  he  attempts  to  show  how  easily  he 
could  invade  Enghind,  if  he  had  only  ships  enough,  with  men  of  the  right  sort  to 
man  them. 


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278  TWO  FUNERALS  OF   NAPOLEON. 

the  undying  token  of  her  own  supremacy,  and  the  humiliation  of  her 
enemies,  such  expressions  as  A  hat  PabncrsUm,  A  bat  les  Anglais, 
sounded  oddly  enough  in  an  Englishman's  ears,  with  these  reooUeo- 
tions  still  throbbing  in  his  memory. 

It  was  to  do  honour  to  those  precious  remains  that  France,  nay  Eu- 
rope, had  assembled  her  thousands  in  the  Champs  Elysees  on  that 
day.  His  faults,  as  well  as  the  unbounded  sacrifices  made  to  his  dar- 
ing ambition,  seemed  to  be  forgotten.  Men  appeared  to  point  only  to 
the  bright  and  burning  spots  in  Napoleon's  career,  without  recollect- 
ing what  they  cost  to  France  and  the  world.  It  was  a  spectacle  of  a 
nation  paying  homage  in  the  names  of  freedom  and  honour  to  the  re- 
presentative of  military  power. 

It  has  been  said  that  French  enthusiasm  is  easily  excited,  and  that 
it  as  easily  cools,  seldom  lasting  long  enoush  to  ripen  into  the  more 
dignified  sentiment  of  traditional  veneration.  Certainly  it  incon- 
sistently decreed  the  honour  of  national  obsequies  on  Napoleon,  whose 
fall  was  hailed  by  the  great  bulk  of  the  nation,  after  the  battle  of 
Waterloo,  as  the  term  of  their  unbounded  sacrifices,  and  as  the  second 
dawn  of  their  public  liberties.  But  little  penetration  was  required  to 
discover  that  curiosity  was  the  strongest  feeline  exhibited,  or  at  the 
most,  it  was  a  galvanized  excitement — it  wanted  the  reality  of  natural 
emotion.  To  those  few,  whose  lot  it  was  to  witness  both  the  burials 
of  Napoleon,  this  must  have  been  apparent.  They  could  not  fedl  to 
note  the  contrast  between  the  gorgeous  display  of  the  second  ceremony, 
and  the  simple,  but  deeply  heartfelt,  funeral  at  St.  Helena.  In  Paris 
everv  thing  seemed  unreal.  For  a  burial,  the  second  ceremony  was 
too  rar  removed  from  the  death ;  people,  if  they  had  not  forgotten,  had 
ceased  to  lament  for  him.  The  charger  led  before  the  hero's  hearse 
had  never  borne  the  hero.  And  for  a  commemoration  it  was  much  too 
soon.  True,  the  remembrance  of  his  reverses  and  his  sufferings  at  St. 
Helena  commanded  the  sympathy  and  reverence  of  every  Frenchman 
present :  doubtless  they  felt,  and  felt  keenly,  the  return  of  their  for- 
mer hero,  thoueh  dead ;  but  the  reflections  were  bitter  to  their  sensi- 
tive natures :  they  felt  that  though  the  bones  of  their  idol  was  amongst 
them,  yet  the  sentence  which  indignant  Europe  had  written  on  the 
rocks  of  St.  Helena  was  not  erased^  but  was  treasured  in  the  depths 
of  men's  minds,  and  registered  in  the  history  of  the  world. 

As  the  catafalque  slowly  passed  by,  over  the  bridge,  along  the 
Quay  d'Orsay,  until  it  was  finally  hidden  from  the  view  by  the  trees 
of  the  Esplanade  of  the  Invalides,  it  was  evident,  that  let  his  country- 
men do  what  thev  would,  let  them  fire  their  cannon,  sound  their 
trumpets,  unfold  the  dusty  banners  of  past  wars,  they  failed  to  impart 
to  the  memory  of  the  vanquished  of  Waterloo  a  becoming  character : 
their  funeral  ceremony  wanted  moral  grandeur ;  they  converted  into 
a  theatrical  show,  what  was  intended  for  a  national  solemnity,  for 
mourners  there  were  none;  his  own  uniforms  were  not  even  seen 
around  hiin,  and  the  only  eagles  there,  were  those  which  were  cut  in 
yellow  pasteboard.  But  the  light  had  burned  out  which  projected  the 
gigantic  shadow  on  the  canvas,  and  what  was  left  behind  ?  nothing 
but  a  name, 

**  The  sport  of  fortune  and  the  jest  of  fame/' 


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279 
HOAX   OF   THE   SHAKSPEARE   BIRTH-HOUSE; 

AKD 

R£LIC  TRADE  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
BT  A  WARWICK8HIBB   MAN. 

Ths  domutmania  of  these  latter  days  outruns  the  bibliomania  of  the 
earliest  bibliomaniac  on  record^  whom  Scott  says,  **  We  take  to  have 
been  none  other  than  the  renowned  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  as 
among  other  slight  indications  of  an  infirm  understanding,  he  is 
stated  by  his  veracious  historian,  Cid  Hamet  fienengeli,  to  have  ex- 
changed  fields  and  farms  for  folios  and  quartos  of  chivalry."  If  the 
Don  was  deemed  of  "  infirm  understanding "  for  exchanging  farms 
for  folios,  who  can  shield  from  the  charge  of  raging  madness,  the  list 
of  royal,  noble,  and  learned  enthusiasts  who  have  given  three  thou- 
sand pounds  for  an  old  cottage  at  Stratford  not  worth  as  many  hun- 
dreds. There  has  been  a  struggle  too  to  get  possession  of  "  relics  " 
of  the  poet  of  all  times,  and  for  a  certain  jug  and  cane,  a  particularly 
fierce  one — a  word  or  two  about  them,  in  the  first  place. 

These  articles  which,  it  is  pretended,  belonged  to  Shakspeare,  are 
in  the  possession  of  the  grand-children  of  Thomas  Hart,  who  was 
the  fifth  descendant  of  Joan  Shakspeare,  the  eldest  sister  of  William 
Shakspeare.  Thomas  Hart  died  at  Stratford  on  Avon,  about  fifty- 
three  years  ago,  at  a  very  advanced  age.  Mr.  Robert  Welch,  formerly 
of  Stratford  on  Avon,  one  of  the  receiving  officers  of  taxes,  whose 
high  character,  well*  known  scrupulous  accuracy,  and  strong  memory 
place  his  statements  beyond  a  doubt,  said,  in  a  letter  to  the  Brighton 
uerald,  in  1844,  and  has  repeated  the  same  to  me  lately,  ^'I  knew 
Thomas  Hart,  and  his  house  intimately,  and  can  speak  to  every 
article  in  his  house*  I  was  constantly  in  the  habit  of  calling  upon 
him  for  many  years,  and  I  am  confident,  if  these  articles  were  in  his 
possession,  I  should  have  seen  them  or  heard  of  them.  They  never 
were  in  his  possession.  I  have  certainly  heard  him  say,  that  the 
armchair  in  which  he  sat  belonged  to  Shakspeare,  but  we  all  treated 
the  assertion  as  a  joke.  The  make  of  it  was  of  the  period  of  James 
II.,  but  not  prior,  from  ray  knowledge  of  furniture  design.  Our 
impression  was  that  the  old  man,  being  in  indigent  circumstances, 
would  have  had  no  objection  to  any  one  bidding  him  a  handsome 
sum  on  the  credit  of  his  assertion,  but  no  one  in  the  town  believed 
that  he  had  any  relic  of  Shakspeare  in  his  possession.  I  never  heard 
of  his  being  able  to  sell  this  chair  as  a  relic  of  Shakspeare;  but  I 
know  we  were  both  surprised  and  annoyed  at  his  selling  four  other 
chairs,  a  few  years  before  his  death,  as  having  belonged  to  Shakspeare, 
and  that  his  neighbours  were  tender  in  their  raillery  at  the  fraud, 
from  compassion  on  his  circumstances  and  infirmities.  The  maker  of 
these  chairs  was  more  than  once  pointed  out  to  me ;  in  fact,  it  was 
well  known.  '*  It  may  be  asked  if  the  jug  and  cane  were  the  property 
of  Shakspeare,  how  came  they  to  be  in  the  possession  of  the  Hart 
family  ?  It  will  be  seen,  on  reference  to  the  poet's  will  that  he  left 
his  sister  Joan  Hart,  twenty  pounds  and  his  wearing  apparel,  and  to 


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.  280  THE  SHAKSPEARE 

her  three  sons  five  pounds  each.  The  beauests  of  the  will  are  clearly 
set  forth ;  for  instance,  to  his  daughter  Judith,  his  silver  bowl  and 
a  legacy  in  money  ;  to  his  wife  his  best  bed ;  to  a  gentleman  in  the 
town  his  dress  sword ;  and  all  his  other  property  of  every  descrip- 
tion  to  his  daughter  Susannah.  If  these  articles  (the  jug  and  cane 
of  which  engravings  have  appeared  in  the  illustrated  newspapers) 
belonged  to  Shakspeare,  how  came  they  into  the  hands  of  Thomas 
Hart's  children?  It  is  certain  the  old  gentleman  never  had  them  in 
his  possession,  or  ever  knew  of  their  existence.  Had  they  been  in 
the  possession  of  Thomas  Hart  or  Sarah  Hart,  his  sister,  Thomas 
woukl  have  known  it ;  and  so  should  we  all  who  were  jealous  of  the 
identity  of  any  article  belonging  to  our  illustrious  townsman." 

ShaKspeare  died  in  1616,  leaving  two  dauffhters,  Susannah, 
married  to  Dr.  John  Hall,  and  Ju£th,  married  to  Mr*  Thomas 
Quiney.  Lady  Barnard,  the  poet's  grand-daughter  ^and  only  sur- 
▼iving  offspring  of  Shakspeare's  daughter)  di^  in  1670,  and  hk 
brother  left  no  issue ;  so  that  in  1670,  Uiere  was  no  lineal  descendant 
of  the  poet ;  the  next  of  kin  being  clearly  the  descendants  of  his 
sister  Joan.  Joan  Shakspeare  married  William  Hart,  of  Stratford, 
and  from  this  marriage  the  Harts  of  Tewksbury,  the  Harts  of  Not- 
tingham, and  the  Harts  of  London,  are  descended. 

Mrs.  Fletcher,  of  Gloucester,  its  possessor,  is  a  descendant  of  the 
Harts  of  Tewksbury,  a  grand-diaughter  of  Thomas  Hart,  and  thooffh 
she  bought  the  jug  from  Miss  Turbeville,  of  Cheltenham,  ror 
nineteen  guineas  on  the  faith  of  its  being  a  relic  of  Shakspeare, 
the  strength  of  her  faith  adds  nothing  to  its  history,  nor  verifies  its 
identity.  Miss  Turbeville,  bought  it  from  Mr.  James  Bennett, 
printer  of  Tewksbury,  for  thirty  pounds.  Mr.  Bennett  had  paid 
twenty  guineas  for  it  in  May,  1841,  at  a  sale  of  Mr.  Edwin  Lee's,  of 
Forthampton  Cottage.  It  was  there  stated  that  the  jug  had  been 
purchased  by  Mr.  Lee  from  the  daughter  of  Mr.  James  Kingsbury, 
whose  wife  (formerly  Miss  Richardson)  inherited  it  from  her  father 
Henry  Richardson,  of  Tewksbury.  To  account  for  Henry  Richard- 
son's possession  of  the  jug,  it  was  said  to  have  been  taken  in  1787  by 
his  father,  John  Richardson,  cousin  of  Sarah  Hart  (who  was  born 
in  1750)  in  lieu  of  twelve  guineas  owing  to  him  by  the  said  Sarah, 
who  was  then  married  to  Mr.  John  Mann. 

The  medallion  on  the  jug  was  added  by  this  Mr.  Richardson, 
though  described,  in  some  of  the  magniloquent  accounts  of  the 
engravings,  as  a  cotemporary  portrait 

Thomas  Hart  is  now  decliured  to  have  been  the  fortunate  possess<Mr 
of  the  cane  as  an  heirloom ;  but  had  this  been  the  case.  Hart  was  not 
the  man  to  keep  his  treasure  a  secret,  whilst  it  was  no  secret  how 
ready  he  was  to  attach  a  reHquiary  reputation  to  any  article  by 
which  a  penny  could  be  turned.  There  are  several  alive  who  knew 
him  and  the  contents  of  his  house  well ;  but  of  either  the  jug  or 
cane  th^  never  heard.  It  appears  that  Mr.  Fletcher,  of  Westgate 
Street,  Gloucester,  was  induced  to  give  five  pounds  for  this  cane  to 
Mr.  Bennett,  who,  it  will  have  been  seen,  made  ten  pounds  profit 
by  hit  speculation  in  the  jug.  In  his  cane  investment  he  was  equally 
lucky,  having  bought  it  mm  Thomas  Shakspeare  Hart  for  two 
guineas.  Thomas  Shakspeare  Hart  was  the  son  of  William  l^iak- 
speare  Hart,  grandson  of  Thomas  Hart,  who  died  in  1793, 

At  each  sale  or  transfer  of  these  articles,  entire  reliance  seems  to 


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BIBTH-HOUSE  HOAX.  281 

here  been  placed  on  their  ''traditionary  reputation."  As  any  repu- 
tation is  better  than  no  reputation  at  all,  the  house  at  Stratford*  sold 
by  the  Courts  the  other  day,  was  described  by  Mr.  Robins  as  resting 
its  character  on  "  traditionary  reputation."  It  happens,  too,  that  all 
the  buyers  and  sellers  of  the  jug  and  cane  in  direct  or  indirect  suc- 
cession date  from  tbdr  modest  era  of  1787.  Why  did  not  they 
venture  a  little  further  back  ? 

The  minute  history  of  the  cane  and  jug,  from  Sarah  Hart,  who 
was  bmm  17^9  and  who  is  said  to  have  sold  the  latter  as  Shak- 
speare's  in  17879  has  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  its  identity.  Sarah 
Hart  was,  in  all  probability,  its  verv  first  owner.  Shakespeare  died 
in  1616.  What  is  its  previous  history  between  these  periods? 
Where  was  its  tnuiitional  reputation— at  Gloucester  or  Tewksbury  ? 
It  was  certainly  not  at  Stratford.  ''I  have  conversed,"  says  Mr. 
Welch,  *'  with  old  Thomas  Hart  and  his  son,  well  known  as  Jack 
Hart,  many  times.  His  daughters,  Jane  and  Martha,  were  domestic 
servants  in  my  father's  family.  I  knew  many  other  descendants  of 
Joan  Shakspeare;  but  I  never  heard  a  whisper  about  the  *  tradi- 
tional reputation'  of  the  jug."  Everyone  connected  with  Stratford- 
on- Avon  knows  that  the  manufiicture  of  relics  of  Shakspeare  is  and 
has  been  a  profitable  business,  and  the  persons  engaged  in  it  are 
well  known. 

The  chairs,  the  chest,  the  table,  which  form  the  furniture  of  the 
room  shown  as  the  one  in  which  Shakspeare  was  bom,  have  been 
placed  there  within  the  memory  of  several  the  writer  could  name. 
Of  one  of  the  alleged  possessors  of  the  cane  Mr.  Welch  says :— ^ 
''  William  Shakspeare  Hart  was  I  suppose  the  son  of  Jack  Hart,  the 
old  gentleman's  only  son;  at  least,  I  never  heard  of  another,  and  I 
have  a  perfect  recollection  of  this  son  and  his  family  leaving  Strat- 
ford for  Tewksbury.  Had  a  cane  of  Shakspeare's  been  in  existence 
I  should  have  heard  of  it,  and  would  gladly  have  given  fifty  pounds 
for  it,  and  I  believe  there  are  wealthy  antiquarians  who  would  ffive 
five  times  that  sum  for  it ;  yet  it  was  sold,  we  are  told,  two  or  three 
years  ago,  for  two  guineas.  If  proof  were  wanting  of  its  spurious 
oriffin,  this  transaction  would  supply  it." 

The  supporters  of  the  genuineness  of  the  "  jug  and  cane"  say  they 
were  omitted  in  Shakspeare's  will  because  tl^y  had  no  intrinsic 
value  ;  but  Shakspeare  specified  his  bequest  to  the  Hart  family  so 
minutely,  that  no  mistake  can  arise  about  it. 

Mr.  Welch  tells  me  *'  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  juff  was  the  pro* 
perty  of  Sarah  Hart,  who  first  propagated  the  fiction  178  years  after 
ber  great-great-great-great-great-uncle's  death.  Not  the  slightest 
trace  of  it  can  be  found  before  her  time.  It  was  never  heard  of  in 
Stratford-on-Avon  until  the  publication  of  Sir  Richard  PhiUps's 
book.  The  proof  that  this  cane  was  the  walking-stick  of  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare— proof  'to  satisfy  a  jury  of  the  most  scrupulous 
antiquarians,' — is  this: — The  widow  of  William  Shakspeare  Hart 
is  the  *  existing  evidence,'  and  she  can  prove  that  she  heard  her 
hudband's  mower  say  'tliis  was  Shakspeare's  walking-stick.'  So 
this  is  the  '  existing  evidence,'  to  *  satisfy  a  jury  of  the  most  scru- 
pulous antiquaries.'  One  old  woman  heard  another  old  woman 
my  so  !^[  again  assert  that  old  Hart  never  possessed  the  cane.  I 
was  constancy  in  the  habit  of  goin^  to  his  house  in  my  eariy  youth, 
and  was  acquainted  with  every  article  in  it.    He  has  told  me  that 


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282  THE   SHAKSPEARE 

the  old  chair  in  which  he  usually  sat  belonged  to  Shaktpeare^ 
but  never  said  a  word  about  any  other  article  in  the  house.  There 
was  a  manuscript  which  he  said  was  Shakspeare's,  and  which  was 
at  that  time  in  the  hands  of  a  near  and  dear  relative  of  mine  as 
security  for  a  sum  of  money  borrowed  by  the  old  gentleman.  The 
manuscript  was  afterwards  sold,  and  I  was  present  when  it  was  paid 
for.  The  purchaser  was  a  stranger  to  me.  I  saw  him  lay  down  on 
the  table  a  number  of  guineas — I  believe  thirty.  I  saw  my  relative 
hand  him  a  bundle  of  papers,  and  then  my  relative  took  up  some  of 
the  guineas.  Old  Hart  took  the  remainder,  and  put  th^  in  his 
pocket;  and  this  seasonable  relief  kept  the  poor  old  man  from  want 
during  the  remaining  few  months  of  his  life.  The  chair  could .  not 
then  obtain  a  purchaser.  Three  chairs  had  been  previously  sold,  to 
different  individuals,  each  warranted  as  the  identical  chair  that 
Shakspeare  sat  in ;  but  this  fourth  chair  required  time  to  give  it 
'  traditional  reputation.*  A  few  years  sufficed  for  the  purpose,  for 
it  was  sold  in  1798  for  twenty  guineas." 

Whether  ''traditional  reputation"  will  maintain  the  value  of  these 
articles  at  their  next  sale,  remains  to  be  seen.  It  is  a  matter  of  won- 
der that  this  family  did  not  make  a  search  among  the  old  clothes' 
shops  for  a  few  pairs  of  antiquated  garments,  and  exhibit  them  as 
the  veritable  property  of  the  immortal  poet.  Here,  at  all  events, 
they  would  have  had  some  countenance  from  Shakspeare's  will,  for 
there  is  no  doubt  about  their  ancestor  inheriting  the  whole  of  his 
wearing  apparel.  This  hint  should  not  be  thrown  away  upon  the 
committee — "  the  fortunate  proprietors  of  this  invaluable  property" 
—for  it  is  not  too  late  to  coUect  doublet  and  hose,  in  fine  moth-eaten 
condition,  from  Holywell*  street,  and  arrange  them  under  glass 
cases,  as  we  see  Nelson's  coat  and  waistcoat  at  Greenwich  Hospital. 

The  deer  stealing,  and  the  harsh  punishment  inflicted  by  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy,  was  a  favourite  theme  for  half  a  centurv  with  Shak- 
speare's biographers.  There  never  was  any  truth  in  it.  It  is  not 
likely  that  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  would  have  inflicted  the  indignity  for 
which  the  self-roused  exasperation  of  some  of  these  grievance- 
makers  are  calling  on  posterity  to  visit  upon  the  inheritors  of 
Gharlecote.  Sir  Thomas  was  on  intimate  terms  with  the  young 
poet's  father,  an  alderman  of  Stratford,  and  was  with  him,  about  that 
period,  on  an  arbitration  concerning  their  mutual  friend  Mr.  Hanmet 
Sadler.  Mr.  Sadler  was  one  of  Uie  witnesses  to  the  poet's  wilL 
Buck-shooting  was  a  very  venial  affair  in  those  days.  The  date  of 
all  the  traditional  lore  afloat  about  Stratford  is  free  from  the  rust  of 
age.  Until  the  time  of  Garrick  there  was  little  interest  attached  to 
the  localitv  where  Shakspeare  spent  the  last  days  of  his  life ;  no  one 
can  say  wnere  he  spent  the  greater  number.  The  room  in  which  he 
wrote  "  Hamlet"  is  worth  a  visit  ten  times  over,  or  even  the  apo- 
cryphal cottage  where  dwelt  demure  Ann  Hathaway,  the  mature 
maid  of  twenty-seven,  congratulating  herself  on  the  "  good  catch," 
when  about  to  marry  the  eldest  son  of  the  most  thriving  tradesman 
in  Stratford,  who  had  been  chief  magistrate  or  bailiff  of  it  too. 
The  shrewd  cottager  saw  the  impression  she  had  made  on  the  sus- 
ceptible boy,  and  improving  her  opportunity  before  it  could  cool, 
made  herself  Mrs«  William  Shakspeare,  consort  to  the  heir-apparent 
to  a  thriving  wool-stapler.  What  Mr.  Shakspeare,  the  father, 
thought  when  he  heard  of  his  son  wedding  himself,  at  the  age  of 


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BIBTH-HOUSE  HOAX.  283 

mneteen,  to  a  womiui  of  .tweiityr>feven^  we  are  not  tcfld.  Some 
venturesome  novelist  has  written  what  was  caUed  '*  The  Courtship 
of  Ann  Hathaway,  a  Romance,  in  three  volumes."  J  never  heard 
of  anything  more  matter-of-fact  than  the  poet's  marriage. 

A  lively  and  all-helieving  writer  in  ''  The  Atlas,"  a  dramatic 
author  of  no  mean  merit,  tells  us,  in  a  pleasing  recital  of  his  visit 
to  Stratford  on  the  eve  of  the  pseudo  sale, — *^  Up  the  Stour  and  the 
Avon,  away  over  the  green  fields  and  through  the  bosky  paths  to 
Shottery  and  Charleeote,  to  Drayton  Bushes  and  Wellesboum  Wood, 
the  name  of  Shakspeare  is  held  in  reverence  by  the  rural  population, 
and  the  town  itself  subsists  solely  upon  the  glory  of  having  given 
him  birth — you  find  some  remembrance  of  him  at  every  turn." 
Garrick  could  find  none  ninety  years  ago;  Bettertcm  could  find 
none,  though  he  went  to  Stratford  on  purpose  a  hundred  years  ago. 
Our  dramatic  author  goes  on, — *'  Rude  effigies  and  busts  of  Shaks- 
peare, prints  of  his  house," — very  modem  ones,'— ''of  the  grammar- 
school  where  he  was  educated,  of  the  gate  of  Charleeote,  where  he 
is  said  to  have  pinned  up  the  lampoon  on  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  of  Ann 
Hathaway's  cottage,  where  be  so  often  made  love  in  the  chimney- 
nook," — where  love  was  made  to  him,  folks  said  at  the  time, — ''  and 
€^  every  spot  known  or  supposed  to  be  associated  with  his  life,  even 
to  the  mulberry  tree  he  planted,  and  the  crab  tree,  under  which, 
a  loose  tradition  says,  he  once  slept  after  a  night's  carousal,  are 
scattered  about  in  shops  and  stalls.  Wherever  you  move  you  are 
reminded  o{  the  fact  tnat  he  belongs  to  Stratford,  and  Stratford 
to  him.  The  town,  from  suburb  to  suburb,  is  literally  Shaks- 
pearean  ground."  Our  author,  however,  adds  symptomatic  mis- 
givings, that  all  is  not  absolutely  true  in  "  floating  tradition." 

'^  To  be  sure,  the  inhabitants,"  continues  the  author,  ''  know 
scarcely  anything  about  the  actual  incidents  of  his  life ;  but  they 
have  caught  up  the  floating  traditions  and  hallowed  them.  The 
stir  made  by  the  committee  has  drawn  crowds  of  people  to  the 
town.  From  the  moment  the  committee  was  formed,  visitors  have 
increased  in  a  rapid  ratio,  to  the  especial  satisfaction  of  the  ancient 
hostelries.  And,  speaking  of  hostelries,  let  me  say  a  word  for  the 
White  Lion,  which  stands  in  Henly  Street,  within  a  few  doors  of 
Shakspeare's  house,  and  is  certainly  the  most  commodious  house  in 
the  town.  Independently  of  its  other  claims  on  the  good  will  of 
visiters,  it  has  some  special  attractions  in  relation  to  the  divinity  of 
the  place.  It  is  said  to  have  been  built  from  the  materials  of  ]^/ew-* 
Place,  the  house  in  which  Shakspeare  died." 

The  committee  have  given  the  same  impulse  to  the  *'  floating  tra- 
ditions" we  read  a^,  that  James  Watt  gave  to  the  steam-engine.  Both 
may  take  credit  for  superadding  the  eccentric  movement. 

The  Visit  to  Stratford  is  very  pretty,— Aen  trovaio,  and  that  is 
all.  I  know  Wellesboume  and  Drayton,  also  the  Stour,  which 
does  not  approach  within  two  miles  of  Stratford,  but  its  banks 
are  innocent  of  anything  Shakspearean.  I  question,  too,  if  any 
of  the  ''rural  population"  of  Wellesboume,  which  is  five  miles 
from  Stratford,  ever  heard  his  name  mentioned  until  lately ;  and 
nom  certainly,  Court's  house,  passed  oflT  on  Lunnun  flats  for  Muster 
Shakspeare's,  is  a  topic  of  talk  at  the  public-houses  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

It  happens  unfortunately  for  the  claims  for  veneration  of  t]ie 

VOL.    ZXIII.  X 


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284  THE  SHARtSPEARE 

materials  of  the  White  Lion^  that  it  was  built  thirty  years  before 
New  Place  was  pulled  down. 

In  July  last  the  Archaeological  Association  visited  Stratford, 

««  Who  save  at  the  flaggon. 
And  prog  in  the  waggon, 
Did  notmng  the  muse  erer  heard  of  to  hrag  on.** 

Belief  or  disbelief  for  fifty  years  of  our  lives  may  possibly  be  all 
the  while  prejudice,  and  the  evidence  of  our  senses  but  a  delusion 
and  a  snare.  Venison  pasties,  veal  pies,  cold  turkey,  and  iced  cham- 
pagne, are  as  requisite  now-a-davs  to  supple  the  stiff  necks  of  un- 
beuevers  in  Archaeological  identities,  as  tne  breviary-shaped  bottles 
of  the  Portuguese  friars  were  for  stimulating  the  conversion  of  the 
people  of  Melinda  in  Brazil. 

«•  Thai  did  Bacchus  conquer  India ; 
Thus  philoflophy  Melinda  ;** 

as  Rabelais  tells  us. 

So,  after  an  ^ftrly  dinner,  rising  from  the  table  of  that  genuine 
relic  of  old  Sir  Thomas  at  Charlecote,  his  descendant,  Mr.  6.  P. 
Lucy,  the  archseologists  placed  Sir  William  Beetham,  M.R.T.A, 
"  Member  of  the  Riprht  Thinking  Association"  (a  capital  name,  as  it 
puts  all  other  societies  and  associations  in  the  wrong,)  at  their  head. 

The  newspapers  described  at  length  their  aspirations  of  veneration 
at  the  sight  of  Homsby's  relic  shop,  and  their  pious  genuflexions 
beneath  the  ancient  little  portal  of  Thomas  Hart's  pork-shop — for 
Thomas  confined  his  knife  to  pig-slaying :  his  slaughter  was  not 
indiscriminate.  We  are  now  told  that  Thomas  Hart's  trembling 
venture  of  vending  a  chair  at  a  time,  and  at  intervals  suitable  to  obli- 
viousness, has  swelled  into  "  a  rare  and  valuable  collection  of  the 
relics  ('selection,'  I  beg  pardon,  was  the  word,  in  deference  to 
those  in  process  of  manufacture),  of  the  immortal  poet.  Many  of 
them  were  shown  at  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Reason,  having  been  re- 
moved from  the  house  in  which  Shakspeare  was  born.  Among 
them  was  the  book  containing  the  signatures  of  Qeorge  IV.,  Wil- 
liam IV.,  Lord  Byron,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  the  King  of  the  French, 
and  some  thousand  celebrities.  Besides  these  objects  of  veneration 
are  the  chairs  which  were  presented  to  Shakspeare  b;^  the  Earl  of 
Southampton,  a  walking-stick,  the  lock  of  the  room  in  which  the 

Eoet  drew  his  first  breath,  the  iron  box  in  which  he  kept  his  will, 
is  smoking-chair,  and  the  dressing-case  that  was  presented  to  him 
by  the  Prince  of  Castile.  The  room  in  which  these  cherished  relics 
of  departed  genius  are  kept  was  numerously  attended  by  persons 
who  viewed  mem  with  feelings  of  deep  interest. 

These  are  the  same  articles  which  were  offered  for  sale  in  October 
last,  when  the  house  was  sold,  as  genuine  relics.  The  following 
articles  were  sold  at  the  same  time : — five  carved  walnut-tree  chairs, 
for  M.  5«.,  to  Mr.  N.  B.  Fletcher ;  an  old  chair,  with  cane  back, 
7L  7s.,  to  Mr.  Lilly ;  a  carved  cabinet,  lOL  10/.,  to  Mr.  A.  L.  Butler ; 
carved  oak  cabinet,  10^  lOs,,  to  Mr.  Weedon ;  a  small  wooden  bust 
of  Shakspeare,  carved  from  the  veritable  mulberry-tree,  18/.  18#., 
to  Mr.  Wilkinson  ;  and  the  book  containing  the  autographs  of  visi* 
tors,  for  nearly  100/.,  from  the  year  I794t,  when  Homsby  started  the 
speculation. 


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BIRTH-HOUSE  HOAX.  285 

The  Jonathan  Olduckt  of  the  present  day  ^  measure  decayed 
entrenehments,  make  plan9  of  ruined  castles^  read  illegible  inscrip- 
tkms,  and  write  essays  on  medals  in  the  proportion  of  twelve  pages 
to  each  letter  of  the  legend."  The  resemblance  of  the  above-named 
venerated  box  to  the  dressing-case  given  by  the  Prince  of  Castile 
(though  furnished  with  unquestionable  Castile  soap^)  is  not  much 
nearer  than  that  of  Polonius's  cloud  to  a  whale  or  an  ouzel ;  but 
it  is  a  subject  for  an  Archaeological  paper.  So  why  raise  a  doubt 
ill-naturedly? 

We  now  come  to  the  imposition  monstre.  The  house  that  Jack 
(John)  Hornsby  built  is  tne  crowning  fortune  of  the  Stratford 
reliqniary  business.  As  long  as  this  was  confined  to  chairs 
tables,  jugSy  and  walking-sticks,  and  the  pious  fraud  benefited 
poor  people  at  the  expense  of  rich  credulity,  there  was  no  great 
harm  done;  but  the  extraordinary  sensation  created  by  the  pur* 
chase  of  this  shabby  sausage-shop  deserves  a  promment  place 
amongst  popular  delusions.  In  the  words  of  the  glorified  poet 
himself,  "  Let  us  see  how  a  plain  word  will  set  them  down."  Thomas 
Hart,  the  descendant  of  Joan  Shakspeare,  occupied  this  house  in 
Henly  Street,  in  which,  it  is  now  asserted^  William  Shakspeare  was 
born ;  a  house  purchased  by  John  Shakspeare  about  the  year  1575, 
as  the  deeds  show ;  consequently,  eleven  years  after  the  birth  of  his 
gifted  son.  I  am  aware  that  a  presumption  exists  that  twenty  years 
subsequently  John  Shakspeare  removed  into  this  house,  from  a  few 
words  in  the  indenture  conveying  a  small  piece  of  land,  situated  at 
the  end  of  Henly  Street,  describing  it  aa  bounded  on  the  east  side 
"  by  the  tenement  of  pae  John  Shakspere,"  and  as  "  part  of  the  pro- 
perty of  me  the  aforesaid  John  Shakspere."  His  son  William  was 
then  residing  in  London,  and  thirty-two  years  of  age. 

There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  Thomas  Hart  lived  in  the 
house  all  his  life.  He  died  about  the  year  17^>  when  he  was  up- 
wards of  eighty  years  of  age.  His  birth  would  be  about  .the  year 
1710,  forty  years  after  the  death  of  Lady  Barnard,  the  poet's  grand- 
daughter. It  is  therefore  quite  certain  that  many  persons  would  be 
living  in  Thomas  Hart's  earl^  days  who  had  known  Lady  Barnard, 
and  this  lady  was  in  her  nmth  year  when  her  illustrious  grand- 
father died.  Here  we  have  connecting  links  from  the  days  of 
Shakspeare  to  the  present  time,  yet  Thomas  Hart  never  knew  that 
Shakspeare  was  born  in  his  house.  He  was  proud  of  his  connection 
with  the  great  poet»  and  as  I  have  stated  was  not  slow  to  avail  him- 
self of  any  advantage  attached  to  supposed  relics.  Sets  of  chairs  had 
been  made  and  sol£ 

Mn  Welch  and  others  living  assure  me  they  knew  Thomas  Hart, 
who  never  once  hinted  at  the  probability  of  such  a  thing.  His 
belief  was  that  Shakspeare  was  born  in  another  part  of  Henly-street, 
nearer  the  Cross,  and  the  site  where  the  house  stood  was  oflen  point- 
ed out  to  persons  now  living,  by  the  old  gentleman,  who,  as  we  have 
seen,  as  a  near  relative  and  contemporary  M  the  poet's  grand-daughter, 
must  have  known  the  exact  spot  where  it  stood,  beyond  all  doubt. 
He  would  indeed  have  been  but  too  happy  to  identify  his  own  house 
with  the  event.. 

John  Shakspeare,  the  father  of  the  poet,  was  the  owner  of  a  large 
copyhold  house  nearer  the  Cross  where  he  lived,  and  where  William 

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286  THE  SHAKSPEARE 

Shakspeare  (in  16(14)  and  his  sister  Joan^  and  several  of  his  brothers 
were  bom.  Eleven  years  after  the  birth  of  his  son  William^  John 
Shakspeare  purchased  two  more  houses  (freehold)  in  the  same  street. 
Some  hundred  vards  further  off.  One  came  into  possession  subse- 
quently of  his  daughter  Joan,  married  to  WilHam  Hart,  great-great- 
great-grand-father  of  the  Thomas  Hart  of  whom  so  mudi  has  been 
said,  and  who  was  well  known  to  many  now  living.  John  Shak- 
speare was  a  wool-stapler,  and  as  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  he 
carried  on  considerable  business,  must  have  required  premises  suitable 
to  its  nature  and  extent.  It  is  altogether  absurd  to  suppose  that  the 
house  lately  sold  to  the  ''  National  Shakspeare  Fund  "  could  ever 
have  been  adequate  for  a  business  of  the  sort,  or  was  ever  the 
abode  of  a  wool-stapler  in  the  humblest  way.  John  Shakspeare  was 
bailiff  (chief  magistrate)  of  Stratford ;  his  name  occurs  a  hundred 
and  fifty  times  in  the  town  records,  and  curiously  enough  is  spelt 
fourteen  different  ways.  Four  times  Shakspere,  fourteen  times 
Shakespeare,  eighteen  times  Shaxpere,  sixty- eight  times  Shaxpeare, 
once  Shackspere,  and  so  on.  The  situation  for  trade  is  worthless  in 
the  house  now  said  to  have  been  John  Shakspeare's  residence  at  his 
eldest  son's  birth,  whilst  that  which  he  did  inhabit  at  the  time  is 
known  to  have  been  one  of  the  best  in  the  town.  The  former,  the 
smaller,  with  the  adjoining  one  was  purchased  without  doubt  for 
investment,  and  bequeathed  to  his  cluldren,  whilst  he  continued  to 
occupy  the  i&rger  house  near  the  centre  of  the  town. 

Mr.  Robert  Welch,  to  whom  I  have  before  alluded,  and  no  one  is 
better  able  to  pronounce  a  decisive  opinion  on  the  value  to  be  set  upon 
the  pretended  relics  and  pretended  house  of  his  renowned  townsman, 
states,  "  Mr.  Rowe's  life  o£  Shakspeare  was  published  about  1707,  and 
the  materials  of  his  life  were  collected  by  Betterton  the  actor,  whose 
veneration  for  the  poet  induced  him  to  go  to  Stratford  for  the  pur- 
pose ;  but  no  mention  is  made  of  the  house  in  which  Shakspeare 
was  born,  though  his  enquiries  after  everythins:  connected  with 
the  poet  were  dUigent  and  unremitdnff.  He  was  shown  a  number 
of  articles  said  to  have  belonged  to  Shakspeare,  but  he  rejected  them 
all  as  unworthy  of  credence.  When  Gkrrick  held  the  Jubilee  at 
Stratford,  sixty  years  later,  there  was  no  mention  of  the  house  in 
which  Shakspeare  was  bom,  and  the  only  relic  he  could  find  that 
bore  the  stamp  of  authenticity  was  the  mulberry-tree,  by  whom 
planted,  no  one  knows,  but  it  was  found  in  the  garden  that  be- 
longed to  Shakspeare.  At  the  same  time  there  was  an  abundant 
supply  of  other  relics  exhibited  to  the  great  actor,  but  he  wisely 
declined  to  purchase  anv.  Had  Thomas  Hart's  house  at  that  time 
had  the  slightest  traditional  reputation,  honourable  mention  would 
have  been  made  in  some  at  least  of  the  numerous  accounts  published 
at  the  time  of  the  details  of  that  famous  jubilee,  when  every  object 
that  had  any  connection  with  the  idol  of  the  day  was  brought  to 
light. 

*'  Mr.  Skottowe,  in  his  life  of  Shakspeare  published  in  1824  (a  work 
of  much  research)  is  entirely  silent  on  the  subject.  I  well  remember 
when  this  house  was  first  said  to  have  been  the  birth-place  of  Shak- 
speare, and  the  sense  entertained  of  the  fabrication  of  the  falsehood, 
by  his  neighbours. 

'^AiVer  Thomas  Hart's  death  in  1794,  the  house  came  into  the  pos- 
session of  a  man  named  Hornsby,  in  the  spring  of  1794,  who  had 


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BIRTH-HOUSE  HOAX.  287 

marned  Hart* a  eldet(  daughter.  This  man  was  a  butcher  in  a  small 
way,  and  in  needy  circumstances,  and  was  not  long  in  possession 
before  he  put  up  a  board  in  front  of  this  house  with  the  following 
inscription : 

'' '  William  Shakspeare  was  born  in  this  house^  23rd  Aprils  Anno 
Domini  1564.' 

"  I  have  a  perfect  recollection  when  this  board  was  first  exhibited, 
and  the  remarks  it  called  forth  from  many  old  people  of  the  town. 
One  and  all  condemned  it  as  a  trick  to  extort  money  from  strangers 
visiting  the  town,  and  openly  reproved  Hornsby  for  setting  up  sucb 
an  infamous  falsehood. 

"  I  have  frequently  conversed  on  this  subject  with  the  admirers 
of  Shakspeare,  and  from  some  have  fallen  expressions  of  regret  at 
being  deprived  of  a  pleasing  illusion." 

The  Keverend  George  Wilkins,  of  Wix,  near  Ipswich,  who  was  a 
schoolfellow  of  Mr.  Welch  at  the  Guild  School  at  Stratford,  where 
they  were  both  bom,  says,  in  a  letter  to  the  Brighton  Herald,  De- 
cember 14, 1844,-7-<' If  people  will  Udk  about  Shakspearian  relics,  I 
will  observe,  that  there  was  an  old  carved  oak  desk  in  the  Guild 
School,  whic^  was  called  Shakspeare's  desk,  and  at  which  I  myself, 
being  the  senior  boy  of  the  school,  always  sat ;  but,  after  all,  what 
is  there  in  a  name?  The  desk  had  never  been  Shakspeare's,  though 
it  might  have  been  in  existence  when  he  received  his  education 
there.  As  to  the  house  palmed  upon  the  public  as  that  in  which 
William  Shakspeare  was  bom,  it  has,  I  know,  no  pretensions  of  the 
sort  When  I  was  at  Stratford,  it  had  one  of  the  best  conducted 
and  best  frequented  inns  in  this  kingdom,  and  many  persons  re- 
sorted to  it  for  the  mere  purpose  of  making  inquiries  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood respecting  Shakspeare ;  but  little  or  no  information  could 
be  obtained,  and  as  for  relics,  search  might  have  as  successfully  been 
made  for  some  belonging  to  Homer.  Among  the  guests  who  fre^ 
quented  that  inn,  was  the  father  of  a  v^y  intimate  friend  of  mine,  a 
man  full  of  anecdote,  facetious,  and  fond  of  company.  That  gentle- 
man told  me  frequently,  and  his  son  never  ceased  to  lament  it  to  the 
day  of  his  death,  that  he  himself  was  a  party  to  the  deception  con- 
cerning the  house.  The  account  he  gave  was  this : — In  consequence 
of  the  numerous  inquiries  made  at  the  inn  and  elsewhere  for  the 
birth-place  a£  the  bard,  and  no  information  being  to  be  obtained, 
because  none  was  known,  it  was  agreed  by  himself  and  others,  his 
companions,  to  suggest  to  the  occupant  (Hornsby)  of  an  Elizabethan 
house  in  the  same  street,  and  almost  next  door  to  the  inn,  the  White 
Lion,  and  which  was  a  building  exactly  suited  for  the  purpose,  to 
hang  up  the  board  above  mentioned,  and  to  exhibit  the  house  in 
future  to  all  inquirers  as  the  identical  one  of  which  they  were  in 
search*  The  deception  took  instantlv ;  customers  flocked  to  the 
inn,  and  visitors  to  the  house ;  no  inquiries  were  made,  for  we  know 
it  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  deceive  people  who  themselves 
wish  to  be  deceived ;  and  thus,  from  that  time  to  the  present,  has 
the  deception  continued,  and,  as  it  is  a  source  of  ^ain  to  the  de- 
ceivers, and  gratification  to  the  deceived,  probably  will  be  continued 
as  long  as  dupes  are  to  be  found  to  believe  and  pay  for  it.  I  knew 
Stratford- on- A  von  well,  and  continued  to  visit  it  for  manv  years 
after  I  left  school,  but  I  never  knew  a  gentleman  who  could  give 
any  information  as  to  the  house  in  which  his  immortal  townsman 


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288  THE   SHAKSPEARE   BIBTH-HOUSE  HOAX. 

was  born.  No !  Shakspeare  the  immortal^  the  immitable,  is  known 
only  by  his  works  :  but  of  them  the  civilized  world  will  boast,  and 
his  countrymen  will  be  proud,  so  long  as  there  shall  be  a  head  to 
perceive,  or  a  heart  to  feel ;  for  to  take  him  for  all  in  all,  his  like 
was  never  known,  and  in  all  probability,  it  will  never  be  again.  As 
to  these  paltry  relics,  they  are  scarcely  deserving  a  moment's  thought. 
J  will  observe,  that  for  a  great  many  years  I  myself,  and  my  friend 
above  alluded  to,  made  every  possible  inquiry,  and  for  a  particular 
purpose,  for  any  relic  of  Shakspeare,  but  not  one  that  could  be 
relied  upon  could  be  found,  or  no  money  should  have  been  spared 
in  the  purchase  of  it." 

The  property,  divided  into  two  houses,  was  bequeathed  by  John 
Shakspeare  to  his  eldest  son,  William,  who  bequeathed  them  to  his 
eldest  daughter,  Susannah,  l>ut  retained  for  his  sister  Joan  a  life, 
interest  in  the  one  she  occupied.  This  last,  again  divided  into  two, 
which  there  is  no  proof  that  William  Shakspere  ever  occupied  as 
a  dwelling  for  himself,  is  the  house  now  stated  to  be  his  birth- 
place! The  other  tenement  was  converted  into  a  small  pubUc- 
nouse,  to  which  use  it  is  now  appropriated.  Mrs.  Hall,  Shakspeare's 
daughter,  became  sole  possessor  of  the  property  on  the  death  of  her 
aunt,  Mrs.  Hart  From  Mrs.  Hall  it  passed  to  her  daughter.  Lady 
Barnard,  wife  of  Sir  John  Barnard  of  Abingdon,  Northamptonshire, 
who,  dying  without  issue,  bequeathed  it  to  her  cousins,  Thomas  and 
John  Hart,  grandnephews  of  the  poet.  In  the  possession  of  their 
descendants  it  remained  until  the  beginning  of  the  present  century. 
Poverty  fell  upon  them :  the  inn  degenerated,  and  the  other  house 
was  divided  into  two,  the  lower  part  of  one  being  converted  into  a 
butcher's  shop.  The  adjoining  land  was  sold,  and  in  1806  the  houses 
were  bought  by  Mr.  Thomas  Court,  whose  widow  proved  herself 
an  accomplished  show- woman  to  the  day  of  its  sale.  So  little  grist 
was  brought  to  the  mill  in  the  early  days  of  its  assumed  character, 
that  Hornsby,  who  started  the  scheme,  sold  it,  twelve  years  after- 
wards,  to  Mr.  Court  for  300/. 

Since  this  period,  the  house  has  profited  increasingly  by  the  revo- 
lution of  each  year ;  indeed  the  further  some  people  get  from  the 
truth  the  more  fearlessly  and  obstinately  do  they  encourage  falsehood. 
For  several  successive  years  a  thousand  persons  visited  the  spot;  but 
of  late  it  has  been  visited  by  as  many  as  seven  thousand  persons  in 
the  course  of  one  year,  a  vast  proportion  of  whom  were  Americans. 

Had  the  speculative  Yankee  carried  off^  the  frame- work  of  Court's 
house  to  be  exhibited  in  the  New  World,  the  ground  could  have 
been  cleared,  the  area  bought  for  fifly  poufids,  and  a  monument 
erected  by  those  who  cling  to  traditions,  with  a  truthful  inscription, 
such  as  "  On  this  spot  stood  a  house  belonging  to  William  Shaks- 
pere." Why  not  erect  on  the  site  of  New  Place,  which  he  bought 
from  the  Clopton  family,  where  he  really  lived  and  died,  a  monu- 
ment, or  obehsk,  similar  to  the  Scott  memorial  at  Edinburgh,  or  the 
Burns  monument  at  Dumfries  P  The  proceeds  of  the  ball  on  the 
29th  May  would  be  well  applied  to  this  purpose. 


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289 

MRS.   ALFRED   AUGUSTUS  POTTS; 

A    TALE   OF    THE    INFLUENZA. 

BT    UBS.   FBANK    BLLIOT. 

''How  do  yoa  find  your  patient  to  night,  doctor?"  tiid  Mr. 
Potts,  to  a  round  rosy  uttle  man,  who  entered  the  room,  rubbing 
his  bands  with  infinite  complacency. 

"  Low,  sir — ^very  low,  sir,"  was  the  reply. 

The  doctor  was  right.  Mrs.  Potts,  (or,  to  call  her  by  her  proper 
title,  Mrs.  Alfred  Augustus  Potts)  was  "  low — very  low."  It  was 
her  tenth  night  of  barley  water,  and  influenza— we  give  due  prece- 
dence to  the  former.  **  She  was  going  fast,"  she  said  herself,  "  but 
was  resigned — quite  so,  beautifully  submissive." 

So  was  Mr.  Alfred  Augustus  Potts,  so  he  had  been  from  a  very 
early  period  of  his  married  life  ;  it  was  his  ordinary  state  of  being, 
and  on  the  present  occasion,  he  saw  no  reason  to  depart  from  it. 

He  took  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  however,  and  remarked,  that 
''  it  was  a  most  unfortunate  business — this  influenza." 

"  By  Jove,  it  is,  sir,"  said  the  little  doctor,  with  the  utmost  glee, 
''  disposes  of  a  pretty  many  of  us,  in  no  time,  young,  old,  and—." 

''Middle-aged,"  suggested  Mr.  Potts. 

It  was  a  prudent  clause,  and  had  reference  to  the  invalid  lady 
above  stairs. 

"And  is  our  dear  friend  really  so  very  poorly?"  sighed  Miss  Lavinia 
Simcox-— a  fair,  faded,  sentimental,  elderly,  younff  lady,  presiding 
at  the  tea-table,  who  had  been  attentively  engaged  in  perusing  tbe 
doctor's  countenance,  from  the  moment  he  had  entered  the  room. 

"  Poorly  !  I  consider  Mrs.  Potts  is  in  a  precarious  state — ^her 
symptoms  serious.  Miss  Lavinia,  excessively  so,  and  in  cases  of  this 
Una,"  continued  the  doctor,  turning  his  jovial  face  on  Mr.  Potts. 
*'  I  conceive  it  my  duty  to  be  candid — ^perfectly  explicit — your  good 
lady,  sir — " 

"  God  bless  mjr  soul !"  cried  Mr.  Potts,  starting  up  from  his  chair. 

"My  dear  friend,  my  strong-minded,  exemplary  Mr.  Potts,  be 
composed,  don't  give  way,"  entreated  Miss  Lavinia. 

"  What 's  to  be  done  ?  what 's  to  become  of  my  infant  family  ?— 
my  poor  orphans,"  exclaimed  the  prospiective  widower. 

"That's  an  after  consideration,"  said  Doctor  Dobbs,  vrith  (as 
Lavinia  thought)  a  peculiarly  expressive  twinkle  of  the  eyes.  She 
cast  down  her's.  "  Our  present  business,"  he  continued,  "  is  to  de- 
vote all  our  energies,  sir,  to  bring  the  patient  round." 

And  thereupon,  the  doctor  drawing  a  chair  to  the  table,  devoted  all 
his  energies,  to  the  discussion  of  the  fragrant  souchong,  and  nicely 
buttered  muffins,  which  Miss  Simcox  was  dispensing. 

"  Capital  tea  this,"  he  exclaimed,  "  admirable  flavour  I  where  do 
you  get  it,  Mr.  Potts  ?" 

"  From  Twinings,  in  three  pound  packages.  It  is  good  tea— but 
I  assure  you,  doctor,"  continued  Mr.  Potu,  "  half  the  secret  is  m 
the  making." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Potts  1"  Lavinia  exclaimed>  "you  are  too  good^too 
complimentary," 


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290  MRS.  ALFRED  AUGUSTUS  POTTS. 

"  By  no  means/'  he  replied,  •'  I  never  knew  what  real  good  tea 
was,  1  may  say,  till— till — my  poor  dear  Mrs.  Potts  unfortunately 
got  the  influenza,  and  Miss  Simcox  was  so  kind— so  very  kind,  as 


her  place,*'  observed  the  doctor. 

'  Exactfy  so,"  answered  the  afflicted  husband.  '^  I  protest  I  'm 
so  overcome  by  my  feelings,"  he  added,  "  feelings  quite  natural  and 
suitable  to  the  occasion,  as  you  will  acknowl^ge,  doctor,  that  I 
hardly  know  how  to  express  myself." 

"  Take  another  cup  of  tea.  Dr.  Dobbs,"  said  Miss  Simcox.  *'  Do 
you  know,"  she  continued  with  charming  vivacity,  "  I  quite  pique 
myself  upon  my  second  cup." 

"Ah,"  said  the  doctor,  ''in  general  that's  a  weak  point  with  tea* 
makers." 

«Now,  doctor,"  simpered  Lavinia,  "you  are  a  great  deal  too 
bad.  I  can't  forgive  you — I  really  can  't.  My  dear  Mr.  Potts,  I 
appeal  to  you — ^is  not  your  second  as  good  as  your  first  ?" 

•*  Better— a  thousand  times  better,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  "  But 
I  have  not  got  it  yet,"  and  Mr.  Potts  stretchal  out  his  cup  to  be 
replenished. 

"  You  hear  what  Mr.  Potts  says !  Hey,  Miss  Lavioia ! "  cried  the 
doctor,  and  he  chuckled. 

Miss  Simcox  was  agitated — she  blushed — she  sighed.  Mr.  Potts 
might  have  heard  herlieart  beat — ^he  did  hear  the  sugar  tongs  fall — 
he  stooped  to  pick  them  up— he  handed  them  to  her-->their  eyes 
met — providentially  Mr.  Potts  squinted. 

"  What  can  he  mean  ?"  she  thought  " '  Better  a  thousand  times 
than  his  first ;'  it  was  a  strong  expression,  and  had  perhaps,  under 
the  circumstances,  a  deep  meaning." 

While  she  thus  pondered,  Mr.  Potts  was  sent  for  by  the  sick 
lady.     Left  tite-d-tite  with  the  doctor.  Miss  Simcox  turned  to  him. 

"  And  you  tell  me  there  is  no  hope  ?"  she  said,  with  mournful 
impressiveness. 

"  Lord  bless  you,  ma'am*  I  told  yon  no  such  thing — ^no  hope,  in- 
deed !" 

"  I — I —  understood  you  to  say  as  much,"  observed  the  crest- 
fallen Lavinia. 

"  No  hope !"  repeated  the  doctor — "no  hope  1 — while  there 's  life 
there 's  hope,  and  though  I  say  it,  that  shouldn't  say  it,  while  there 's 
Thomas  Dobbs  there 's  hope." 

This  last  assertion  was  made  with  so  much  energy,  that  Miss 
Simcox  immediately  acknowledged  her  mistake.  "  There  was  hope 
— she  was  confident  there  was— every  hope." 

Yes — every  hope  but  the  right  one.  Poor  Lavinia !  she  fell  into 
a  reverie,  that  lasted  for  the  next  five  minutes,  then  starting  sud- 
denly from  it,  tried  to  brighten  up  her  face,  twitched  her  cap, 
twirled  her  ringlets,  and  looking  up  sweetly  at  Dr.  Dobbs,  said, 
"  she  was  glad— very  glad," 

"  Glad  of  what,  ma'am  ?"  said  the  doctor. 

Miss  Simcox  might  have  found  some  difficulty  in  explaining  her 
feelings,  to  so  literal  an  auditor,  but  she  was  spared  the  task,  being 
hastily  summoned,  in  her  turn,  to  the  bedside  of  Mrs.  Potts. 

She  stole  softly  up  the  stairs,  and  entered,  the  sick  chamber  on 
tip-toe. 


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MRS.  ALFRED   AUGUSTUS  POTTS.  291 

*'l  iSen  a  nistle^-the  rattle  of  her  best  striped  silk/'  said  a  voice 
from  behind  the  cortains— a  vohce  ''made  faint  with  too  much 
sweets/'  black  currant  jelljr,  pulmonic  paste,  and  pectoral  wafers. 

"  Is  it  my  friend  ?"  it  said. 

Lavinia  declared  that  it  was,  and  approaching  the  bedside  ex- 
pressed her  oyerwhdming  sorrow,  at  finding  her  dear  Mrs.  Potts  so 
poorly. 

**  My  Simcox ! "  said  the  snfierer,  plaintively. 

It  was  one  of  her  charming  little  peculiarities,  to  designate  her 
friends  and  acquaintances  by  their  surnames.  Her  husband  was 
simply  "  Potts "  —  ftntk  me,  Lavinia  was  wont  to  think,  he  would 
have  been  Alfred  Augustus,  and  what  a  pity  't  is,  the  name  should 
be  thus  thrown  away. 

"  My  sweety  my  sympathising  Simcox !"  pursued  Mrs.  Potts— 
"  Draw  near  to  me-^o  you  know  why  I  have  sent  for^ou  ?" 

^  No,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Lavinia ;"  but  never  mind  it  now — 
don't  worry  yourself,  I  entreat  I— I —  assure  you  everything  goes 
on  down  stairs,  just  as  if  you  were  about  again,  as  I  trust  in  heaven, 
you  will  be  soon, — next  week  perhaps." 

"  I  shall  never  be  about  again,"  said  Mrs.  Potts,  solemnly — "  but 
I  'm  resigned,  quite  so^— we  have  made  up  our  minds  to  it.  Potts 
and  L" 

Mr.  Potts  made  no  observation  as  to  his  mind — he  muttered 
somednng  from  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  respecting  his  heart, 
which)  according  to  his  statement,  was  torn  to  pieces,  pierced, 
cut  through  and  through. 

Lavinia  said  nothing,  but  she  wept  sufficiently. 

"And  you  can't  tell  what  I  want  to  confide  to  you — ^you  don't 
know  why  I  sent  for  you?" 

"No,"  sobbed  Miss  Simcox. 

"  You  don't  know  the  anxiety  that  is  upon  me — Ae  weight." 

Mr.  Potts  adjusted  the  quilt — a  heavy  Marseilles. 

"It  isn't  thai,  Potts — Oh  no  I  It's  a  very  different  kind  of  weight 
—yon  little  know  what  it  is  to  lie  here  hour  af^r  hour  and  think 
and  fret" 

"  My  dear  dear  Mrs.  Potts,"  entreated  Lavinia,  "  don't  agitate — 
xlon't  excite  yourself, — I  protest  to  you  solemnly,  everything  is 
going  on  below  like  clooe-work,  and  I  shall  see  to  those  pre- 
serves myself,  I  promise  you,  on  Monday — I  shall  make  a  point  of 
doing  so." 

"  A  lb.  and  half  of  pale  Seville  oranges  to  one  lb.  and  half  of 
sugar,  double  refined,"  murmured  Mrs.  Potts,  "  Boil  together  gently 
for  twenty  minutes ;  if  not  sufficiently  clear,  simmer  for  ^ve  or  six 
minutes  longer,  stirring  gently  all  the  time — ^page  132,  leaf  doubled 
down — and  the  book  is  on  the  second  shelf,  right-hand  comer  of  the 
little  closet  next  to  the  '  Holy  Livmg  and  Dying,'  and  you  will  be 
sure  to  follow  the  receipt  exactly,  Simoox.^ — But  after  all,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Potts,  "what's  in  a  receipt?  there  is  an  art  in  marmalade, 
and  to  be  sure  there  never  was  any  like  mine." 

"  Never,  never,"  said  the  disconsolate  husband. 

"  Oh,  Potts !"  the  wife  replied,  "  how  you  did  enjoy  it !  and  the 
children — I  think  I  see  them  now,  poor  dears,  with  their  pinafores 
on,  and  their  sweet  sticky  little  lips  and  fingers." 

The  picture  was  so  vivid,  thi^  when  Mrs.  Potts  paused  to  cough. 


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292  HRS.   ALFBED   AUGUSTUS   POTTS. 

Miss  Simcox  cast  a  frightened  glance  upon  the  best  striped  n1k>  and 
drew  its  folds  more  closely  around  her  in  alarm. 

'*  Little  angels ! "  said  Mrs.  Potts,  still  apostrophising  her  young 
family,  "  And  that  cherub  Tommy !" 

'<  Don't — don't  be  uncomfortable  about  him/'  said  Miss  Simcox, 
"  How  well  he  got  oyer  the  influenza — and  his  new  tunic  is  come 
home — he  looks  so  sweetly  in  it,  little  darling!" 

'*  He  '11  look  sweetly  in  his  mourning,"  replied  Mrs.  Potts,  with 
infinite  pathos.  ''  Six  of  them,  like  steps  of  stairs,  and  all  in  black 
for  their  poor  dear  mamma ! " 

*'  Oh !  It 's  too  much ! "  cried  Potts. 

Perhaps  he  meant  too  many ;  he  spoke  yaguely,  but  the  feelings 
of  a  man  who  stands,  as  he  did,  on  the  brink  of  widower-hood,  are 
too  sacred  for  inyestigation— a  deep  mystery  they  are,  eyen  to 
himself. 

''And  you'll  take  them  all  to  church  the  first  Sunday,  if  their 
mourning  can  be  got  ready  ?"  said  Mrs.  Potts. 

''  Allf"  enquired  Potts,  whose  grief  now  assumed  the  semblance 
of  terror. 

"All,"  replied  Mrs.  Potts,  with  sublime  composure,  "  All  except- 
ing baby ;  and  fifteen  months  is  too  young — ^he  might  take  cold ; 
but,  Simcox,"  she  added,  turning  towards  her  friend,  ''  His  feather 
must  be  dyed,  and  I  depend  on  you  about  his  sash." 

"  Black,  or  French  grey  ?"  enquired  Layinia,  in  a  muffled  tone. 

"  I — I  shall  go  distracted,"  exclaimed  Potts,  ''  Upon  my  word  I 
shall." 

As  a  preliminary,  he  drew  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and 
rushed  to  the  door. 

*'  Come  back.  Potts,"  cried  his  wife. 

His  hand  was  on  the  lock,  but  obedient  to  the  conjugal  com- 
mand, he  turned. 

'<  Come,  and  stand  beside  my  dying  bed." 

He  did  as  he  was  bid,  but  at  the  same  time  took  occasion  to  in- 
form Mrs.  Potts  he  **  wasn  't  flint  or  marble,  or  the  nether  mill- 
stone, and  that  this  sort  of  thing  tried  him." 

**  You  must  endeayour,  my  dear  Mr.  Potts,"  said  Miss  Simcox, 
who  was  industriously  employed  in  drying  her  eyes.  '*  You  must 
endeayour  to  oyercome  these  emotions,  laudable  as  they  are." 

**  They  are  an  honour  to  your  head  and  heart,  but  they  must  be 
oyercome,"  said  Mrs.  Potts,  somewhat  peremptorily. 

''I  am  not  a  stoic  philosopher,  nor  a  Brutus,  no,  nor  a  brute, 
Mrs.  P.,"  he  replied,  "and  I  must  be  allowed  to  feel,  I  really 
must." 

Layinia,  with  uplifted  hands  and  eyes,  protested  she  had  **  neyer 
seen  such  a  husband — ^no,  neyer— such  deyoted  loye  1" 
-  Mrs.  Potts  raised  her  head  from  the  pillow,  nodded  approbation 
to  this  sentiment,  and  then  sank  back  exhausted. 

There  was  silence  in  the  sick  chamber — Mr.  Pott's  was  dying  to 
be  out  of  it,  and  to  go  distracted  in  the  parlour,  where  he  had  left 
the  doctor,  and  the  tea.  Miss  Simcox  began  to  feel  her  situation 
embarrassing.  Mr.  Potts  might  now  be  considered  a  single  man — a 
widower,  with  black  crape  upon  his  hat— her  poor  dear  friend  was 
eyidently  all  but  gone.  Mrs.  Potts,  herself,  broke  not  the  stillness ; 
she  uttered  no  murmur,  no  complaint;    ihe  did  not  eyen  cough. 


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MRS.  ALFRED  AUGUSTUS  POTTS.  293 

but  she  covered  up  her  face  with  the  bed-clothe8>  and  lay-  in  medita- 
tioD— -ehe  was  collecting  strength  for  a  great  effort. 
At  last  she  spoke — 
**  Simcox/'  she  said. 

'<  My  sweet  sufferer  I"  Lavinia  responded. 

^  When  I  'm  gone — when  I  'm  laid  in  my  cold  cold  grave^"  (here 
Potts  was  observed  to  shiver  convulsively^)  ''  will  you  be  a  mother 
to  my  orphan  six  ?" 

''  I '11  try/'  said  Lavinia;  and  Lavinia  said  the  truth. 
**  Compose  yourself^  Simcox — It 's  all  very  natural^  and  creditable 
to  your  affectionate  disposition,  to  cry  and  give  way  so,  but  you 
must  hear  me— come  nearer  both  of  you." 

Lavinia  came  close — very  dose  indeed.  Potts  was  more  slow  of 
approach. 

"  Remember  it  is  my  last  wish,  that  you  should  be  poor  Potts's 
consolation — ^his  second  choice." 

"Mrs.  P. !"  exclaimed  that  gentleman,  who  appeared  to  consider 
himself  aggrieved. 

**  Potts,"  said  the  lady,  emphatically,  *Mt  must  be." 
*'  It's — It's  premature,"  stammered  out  the  unhappy  Mr.  Potts. 
**  Don't^— don't  talk  so— dear  Mrs.  Potts,"  said  the  agitated  Lavinia. 
*'  It  looks  as  if  I  hadn't  been  a  good  husband — ^it  looks  as  if  I  wasn't 
sorrv.    Upon  my  word,  Mrs.  P — ,  any  stranger  would  think  that 
we  Sid  not  regret  you." 

**Oh,  dear  Mr.  Potts,"  screamed  Lavinia,  "how  can  you  give 
utterance  to  such  horrid  thoughts !" 

"  I  am  sure  you  do  regret  me,  Simcox,"  said  Mrs.  Potts.  "  I  see 
how  you  feel — I  see  it  perfectly  well."  Lavinia  winced — "but 
there  are  plenty  of  artful  Misses,  continued  the  sick  lady,  with  re- 
markable energy—"  whom  I  know  to  be  on  the  look  out,  and  I  'm 
determined  to  disappoint  them  all — those  Fusbys  here  three  times  a 
day  to  enquire !" 

*'  Onljr  twice,"  mildly  observed  Mr.  Potts. 

"Twice — three  times— -don't  I  lie  here  and  count  the  double 
knocks?"  said  the  lady  with  much  asperity — "but  I  see  how  it  is, 
Potts.—I  see  through  it  all— Oh,  that  Fanny  Fusby !" 

Mr.  Potts  protested  his  innocence  with  regard  to  Fanny,  or  any 
other  Fusby. 

Lavinia  was  alarmed — she  recalled  the  Fusby  eves,  as  black  as 
sloes— the  Fusby  skins,  as  white  as  cream — ^the  Fusby  cheeks,  as 
red  as  roses — ^the  Fusby  faces,  made  after  the  pattern  of  a  princess 
in  a  fairy  tale — no  wonder  that,  she  trembled  and  turned  pale. 

"  Promise  me  on   your  word  of  honour.  Potts,"  said  his  wife, 
"that  you  '11  never  marry  Fanny  Fusby."     He  gave  the  promise. 
"  Give  me  your  hand."    He  gave  that  too. 

"Simcox,  where  is  yours?"  said  Mrs.  Potts,  and  she  sat  up  in 
the  bed  bolt  upright. 

Lavinia  produced  her  hand,  with  a  good  deal  of  alacrity — it  was 
shrouded  in  a  worsted  mitten. 

"Take  off  that  glove,"  said  Mrs.  Potts.  "It's  more  impressive 
without  it."    Lavinia  obeyed. 

"  There,"  said  Mrs.  Potts,  as  she  seized  her  friend's  hand,  and 
placed  it  in  that  of  Mr.  Potts — "  there  it's  done  now— they  're  joined 
—let  them  not  be  put  asunder." 


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294  MRS.    ALFRED   AUGUSTUS  POTTS. 

*'  The  very  words  of  the  Prayer  book/'  murmured  Lavinia. 

"  Premature/'  muttered  Mr*  Potts  again,  and  his  fingers  struggled 
faintly  for  release — Lavinia  held  them  tight. 

"  By  no  means^  Potts/'  said  his  wife — "  I  don't  vish  it  to  take 
place  for  a  year — one  twelvemonth  you  shall  wear  your  crape.  I 
ask  no  more — but  promise  me  again>  that  Fanny  Fusby  never 
darkens  these  doors/' 

*'  I  wish  to  heaven/'  cried  Potts,  now  evidently  on  the  very  eve 
of  distraction.  *'  I  wish  to  heaven,  I  had  never  seen  Fanny  Fusby. 
She  has  brought  all  this  upon  roe." 

'^  Bless  my  stars !"  Doctor  Dobbs  exclaimed,  as  he  bustled  into 
the  room — "there's  Mrs.  Potts  sitting  up  in  bed! — talking,  I  do 
believe ! — lucky,  I  'm  sure,  that  I  looked  in  before  I  left  the  house — 
lie  down,  lie  down,  my  good  lady— -I  can't  answer  for  the  conse- 
quences of  such  doings/' 

"  Oh,  doctor !"  said  Lavinia,  ''  we  have  been  begging  and  prajring 
her  not  to  ex^t  herself." 

•^  It 's  cruel,  downright  cruel,"  protested  Potts.  "  She  does  not 
consider  me,  Dobbs — not  in  the  feast — one  would  think  I  was  a 
block  to  hear  her  talk  /' 

Mrs.  Potts  informed  the  doctor,  that  she  had  merely  been  com- 
municating her  last  wishes  to  her  dear  husband,  and  her  dearest 
friend,  and  then  went  on  to  chant  her  nunc  dimittis,  in  a  voice  more 
sick  and  low  than  ever — (she  was  ^dw ays  more  piano  in  the  medical 
presence  than  at  any  other  time). — "  Now  she  could  depart  in  peace 
—now  all  was  settled — now  Fanny  Fusby  could  not  dance  upon  her 
grave,  nor  snub  poor  little  Tommy— Siracox  would  watch  over  him, 
and  be  poor  Potts's  comforter." 

The  doctor  listened  in  mute  amazement— Mr.  Potts  was  evidently 
growing  more  and  more  bewildered,  between  conflicting  duties  ;-— 
the  present  and  the  future  Mrs.  P.  were  both  before  him ;  he  knew 
not  where  to  turn  or  look,  and  stood  gazinff  into  vacancy,  with  his 
hands  now  freed  from  Lavinia's  grasp,  and  firmly  planted  in  his 
pockets — Miss  Simcox,  herself,  was  nearly  overcome  by  the  novelty 
and  complexity  of  her  emotions.  Sensitive  and  shrinking  by  nature, 
her  modesty  on  the  present  occasion  was  excessive,  and  manifested 
itself  by  a  determination  of  blushes  to  the  nose*4t  was  a  moment 
fraught  with  intense  feeling — with  hi^h  interests^one  of  those 
moments  of  such  rare  occurrence  in  this  work-a-day  world— that 
come  upon  us  like  fountains  in  the  desert — like  dew-drops  to  the 
thirsting  flowers ;  there  was  something  of  sublime  in  fact,  in  the 
pause  which  followed  Mrs.  Potts's  adcfress,  but  it  was  broken  by 
the  doctor's  whisding. 

"  Tol  e  rol  lol,  my  good  lady,'*  he  said,  **  we  must  put  a  stop  to 
this  work — time  enough  for  my  friend  I\Ir.  Potts  here  to  advertise 
for  a  wife  twenty  years  to  come,  and  I  'd  lay  my  life  Miss  Lavinia 
would  rather  not  wait  so  long." 

"  Then  you  don't  quite  give  me  up,  doctc^  ?"  said  the  patient. 

**  To  be  sure  I  don't — who  said  I  did,  I  'd  like  to  know  ?"  en- 
quired the  doctor. 

*'  I  didn't,  I  'm  sure,"  said  Lavinia,  and  (to  use  one  of  her  own 
favourite  figures  of  speech,)  she  ''  trembled  all  over." 

"  I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing,"  Potts  said,  in  as  still  and 
small  a  voice,  as  if  his  conscience  had  found  a  tongue  to  tell  the  fiU 


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MRS.    ALFRED  AUGUSTUS  POTTS.  295 

"  Don't  talk,  don't  excite  yoorself,  my  good  lady/  said  the  doc- 
tor, <'  it '%  high  time  that  yoa  shoold  take  your  draught,  and  settle  for 
the  night." 

The  enraptured  Potts  caught  at  the  suggestion,  and  immediately 
convinced  that  any  further  conversation  (not  strictly  medical)  might 
interfere  with  Mrs.  P.'s  proroects  of  repose,  proposed  leaving  her 
with  Doctor  Dobbs.  Miss  Simcox  was  of  the  same  opinion,  and, 
taking  an  affectionate,  perhaps  even  pathetic  farewell  of  the  siek  lady, 
they  left  the  apartment. 

Together  they  quitted  it,  together  they  groped  their  way  down 
the  dimly  lighted  stair  case,  Lavinia  starting  at  every  noise,  ^for  she 
was  nervous,)  and  pressing  nearer  to  the  side  of  him,  whom  sne  now 
looked  on  as  her  natural  protector — ^together  they  sat  by  the  cheer- 
ful parlour  fire — their  feet  upon  the  fender  in  sweet  proximity— 
their  hands — but  Potts  still  kept  his  in  his  pockets,  so  liavinia  was 
fain  to  cross  hers  on  her  bosom— together,  as  the  evening  advanced, 
they  discussed  their  little  supper,  and  the  Fosby  family-— the  clum- 
siness of  their  ancles — ^here  Miss  Simcox  was  unimpeachable,  and 
glanced  with  pardonable  triumph  towards  the  fender) — ^the  flannt- 
ingness  of  their  attire — their  numerous  small  imperfections,  and  the 
unaccountable  delusion  under  which  poor  dear  Mrs.  Potts  laboured; 
with  respect  to  Miss  Fanny — the  second  eldest  Fusby — "  the  most 
unlikely  young  woman  in  the  world/'  (as  Miss  Lavinia  more  than 
once  observed,)  **  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  most  refined,  and 
most  truly  elegant  minded,  of  his  sex." 

In  converse  such  as  this,  the  evening  sped  swiftly  away, —  the 
doctor  popped  in  his  head  for  a  moment,  to  bid  them  keep  up  their 
spirits,  and  to  promise  to  look  in  early  in  the  rooming. 

DoctOT  Dobbs  had  spoken  truly ;  the  influenxa  ma$  ''  a  treacher- 
ous complaint."  The  next  morning,  Mrs.  Potts,  (who  could  have 
believed  it?)  was  a  great  deal  better;  *'8he  had  taken  a  turn,"  her 
own  maid  said,  the  ^ct  was,  she  had  taken  a  beef-steak. 

''  I  do  believe  they  are  keeping  me  too  low,.  Jones,"  she  bad  said 
to  the  maid  in  question,  when  Doctor  Dobbs  had  taken  his  leave 
the  preceding  night. 

''  Yes,  ma'am,  and  they  has  their  reasons,"  said  the  maid ;  a 
woman  of  sense  and  few  words. 

**  I  smell  something,'  said  the  invalid  ;  '*  something  savory." 

«  Yes,  ma'am." 

"What  is  it,  Jones?" 

"  Master  and  Miss  Simcox  is  having  toasted  cheese  for  supper, 
ma'am."    Jones  spoke  with  considerable  emphasis. 

*'  Umph,"  muttered  Mrs.  Potts ;  "  I  thought  she  told  me  every- 
thing went  on  like  clock-work — ^pretty  clock-work !  toasted  cheese !" 

"  They  has  a  trav  every  night,  quite  comfortable,"  observed  the 
maid,  with  admirable  innocence. 

To  confess  the  truth.  Miss  Simcox  was  not  a  popular  member  in 
the  lower  house, — as  to  Jones,  she  entertained  a  strong  objection,  as 
any  reasonable  servant  might  to  two  Missuses,  and  "  didn't  see,  for 
her  part,  what  business  they  had  of  interlopers." 

Presently,  the  odour  emanating  from  the  parlour  and  the  toasted 
cheese  became  00  potent,  that  Mrs.  Potts  declared  "  she  could  not 
sleep  for  it,"— -presently,  she  thought  ''it  gave  her  quite  an  ap- 
petite,"— presently,  she  fancied  *'  she  could  pick  a  bit,"  and  finally, 
she  enquired  with  much  interest,  ''  what  they  had  in  the  larder  ?" 


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296  MB8.  ALFRED  AUGUSTUS   POTTEr. 

^  A  eotd  shoulder  of  mutton,*^  was  the  antatitfiictonr  reply. 

**  I  don 't  believe  it !"  said  Mrs.  Potts—''  I  don 't  bdieve  but  that 
shtT  (the  was  the  friend  of  her  bosom,  the  ''  sweet  sympathisioi^ 
Simcox'')>  *'  h^  got  some  nice  little  tit  bit  put  by  for  her  breakfast — 
go  and  see,  Jones." 

Jones  departed  on  her  mission — a  successful  one  it  proved  ;  far 
after  a  brief  absence,  she  returned  in  triumph,  bearings  a  savory 
little  bit  of  steak  between  two  plates. 

Mrs.  Potts's  conjecture  had  been  but  too  well  founded,  and  by  a 
species  of  retributive  and  poeticd  justice,  which  in  a  tragedy  woald 
have  been  sublime,  (especiaUv  if  it  had  had  a  chorus),  the  very 
beefsteak  which  Lavinia,  with  tender  foresight,  had  provided  for 
her  own  matin  meal,  and  that  of  Potts,  became  the  means  of  raising 
the  departing  lady  from  the  bed  of  sickness. 

Mrs  Potts  ate,  and  was  comforted.  •  •  •  • 

*  *  On  Monday,  Mrs.  Potts  appeared  betimes,  alert  and 

vigorous  as  ever — she  made  her   breakfast, — she  did  more^— she 
made  her  marmalade.    *'  She  saw  to  those  preserves  herself." 

Where  was  she  who  had  undertaken  this  graceful  task — who  bad 
promised  to  give  her  tender  watchful  care  to  the  simmering,  the 
stirring,  and  the  gently  boiling.  Where  was  the  fair  Lavinia? 
Gone — gone  in  a  one-horse  fly,  with  a  carpet-bag,  a  small  port- 
manteau, a  band-box,  and  a  reticule,  to  "  Rosebud  Bower/'  (for 
so  was  the  sweet  abode  of  the  Fusby  girls  denominated,) — gone  to 
pour  our  her  sorrows  in  their  sympathizing  bosoms,  to  mourn  with 
them  over  the  common  shipwreck  of  their  hopes,  and  derive  a  joint 
and  unspeakable  consolation  from  a  free  canvass  of  all  "  poor  dear 
Mrs.  Potts's  little  peculiarities." 

The  Fusby s  were  young,  their  spirits  were  elastic, — they  were 
bounding  buxom  girls,  with  a  deal  of  ''gushing  life"  about  them 
—existence  was  new  to  them — new  prospects  were  opening  before 
them^-a  new  regiment  was  quartered  in  the  neighbouring  town — 
a  new  curate  was  expected — what  cared  they  after  all  for  Mr.  Potts? 

Not  so  Lavinia— she  hung  her  head,  and  drooped  like  a  lily. 
Her  dreams  were  still  of  him — the  memory  of  that  little  parlour — 
the  cheerful  fire — ^the  friendly  fender — the  two  arm-chairs  drawn 
close  together,  all  haunted  her.  Almost  unconsciously  to  herself, 
the  hapless  Lavinia,  nourished  in  the  secret  foldings  of  her  heart, 
hopes,  vague  and  ill-defined,  yet  strong. 

"  There  have  been  such  things  as  relapses,  and  what  did  Doctor 
Dobbs  say  about  the  deceitful  nature  o£  Mrs.  Potts's  malady  ?" 
These  were  questions  which  Lavinia  put  to  herself,  as  she  sat  alone 
by  the  fire  one  frosty  morning  in  the  Fusby  drawing-room,  and 
sorted  her  Berlin  wools. 

A  knock  came  to  the  hall  door,  she  started  like  a  guilty  thing, 
"who  would  venture  forth  on  such  a  morning.^  so  cold,  so 
cutting." 

She  listened — she  heard  a  voice  familiar  to  her  ears,  loud,  clear, 
and  distinct  were  its  tones — ^these  its  words. 

"Give  these  cards  and  Mrs.  Potts's  compliments  to  the  Misses 
Fusby — Miss  Fanny  in  particular,  and  to  Miss  Simcdx.  Sav  I 
(Mrs.  Potts,^  called  in  person,  mind,  to  return  thanks  for  their 
polite  enquiries  and  obliging  attentions  during  the  Influbnza.'* 


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297 


VISITS,  DINNERS,  AND  EVENINGS  AT  THE 
QUAI  D'ORSAY,  AND  AT  NEUILLY.^ 

SovBBBiONS  and  princes  are  not  the  only  persons  who  have  their 
courtiers  and  flatterers ;  the  circumstance  of  being  received  at  the 
palace,  and  going  thither  frequently,  is  alone  sufficient  to  bring 
about  you  a  troop  of  sycophants.  Since  the  Revolution  of  July, 
more  especially,  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  come  in  contact  with 
many  very  extraordinary  people.  My  position  about  the  royal 
family  naturally  led  me  a  great  deal  into  society,  and  obliged  me  to 
receive  all  sorts  of  persons,  some  of  whom  were  useful  in  one  point 
of  view,  but  despicable  in  many  other  respects. 

The  meetings  of  the  Phrenological  Society  were  held  in  my 
drawing-room  twice  a  month,  and  I  often  presided  at  them  my- 
selfl  All  our  principal  medical  men  were  present  on  these  occasions. 
Monsieur  Broussais  and  his  son,  Bouilland,  Andral,  Fossatti,  6au« 
berty  Lacorbiere,  Demontier,  Harel,  Debout,  Voisin,  Salandiere,  and 
others,  and  any  foreigners  who,  during  their  stay  in  Paris,  were  desi- 
rous of  informing  themselves  of  the  system  of  Gall  and  Spurzheim. 
Sometimes  these  meetings  were  particularly  interesting.  One  even- 
ing two  heads,  covered  with  flesh,  were  brought  me  in  a  basket.  At 
first  I  thought  they  were  modelled  in  wax,  for  they  were  placed 
with  much  caution  upon  the  table,  which  served  as  a  desk  K)r  the 
president  and  his  secretaries.  The  eyes  were  open,  and  the  features 
in  a  state  of  perfect  repose.  I  drew  near  to  ue  table,  and  recog- 
nized the  faces  of  Lacenaire  and  Avril,  two  murderers  whom  I  h»i 
visited  in  their  cells.  The  boy  who  brought  the  two  heads  to  the 
Phrenological  Society,  said  to  me,  **  You  consider  them  very  good 
likenesses,  don't  you.  Monsieur  Appert  ?  "  Upon  my  answering  in 
the  affirmative,  he  smiled,  and  observed,  ^'  that  that  was  not  very 
astonishing,  for  they  had  only  quitted  their  shoulders  four  hours 
ago."  In  short,  they  were  actually  the  heads  of  those  two  cri- 
minals. 

A  curious  circumstance  happened  to  me  in  connexion  with  Lace- 
naire, which  is  worth  relating.  A  short  time  before  he  committed 
the  horrible  murder  for  which  he  was  sentenced  to  the  scaffold,  he 
paid  me  a  visit,  on  pretence  of  having  an  important  secret  to  confide 
to  me.  I  knew  him  immediately,  for  I  had  seen  him  in  prison,  but 
I  had  nothing  to  fear  from  him  21s  regarded  myself,  so  I  desired  that 
he  might  be  shewn  into  my  study,  in  prder  that  we  might  not  be 
overheard  by  my  secretaries.  As  soon  aa  he  entered  the  room,  he 
closed  the  inside  blinds^  and,  placing  his  back  against  the  door,  he 
said, — "  Do  you  know,  my  worthy  Monsieur  Appert,  that  you  are 
very  incautious  to  place  yourself  so  completelv  in  my  power^  and  in 
an  apartment  too,  where  all  your  money  is  kept.  I  was  aware  of 
this  when  you  brought  me  here.  Your  cries  for  assistance  would 
not  be  easily  heard,  we  are  so  far  removed  from  any  of  your  houses 
hold.  I  have  arms  secreted  about  my  person,  and  am  already  guilty 
of  several  crimes :  what  should  prevent  me  from  killing  you  ?  But 
you  have  nothing  to  fear,"  added  he  immediately  afterwards. 
"  What  man  would  be  such  a  monster  as  to  harm  you,  you  who  are 
*  From  the  French  of  M.  B.  Appert. 


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298  VISITS,    DINNERS,   AND    EVENINGS 

the  friend  and  comforter  of  prisoners  ?  No/'  said  he  with  enei^, 
"  rather  wottld  I  die  this  instant  than  cause  you  a  moment's. pain." 
I  answered  him  with  a  smile,  "  Am  I  not  perfectly  acquainted  with 
you  all,  with  all  your  characters?  You  have  very  fearful,  dark 
thoughts  at  times,  undoubtedly ;  but  still  there  is  no  reason  which 
should  prevent  me  from  trusting  myself  alone  with  yoo  ;  in  fiict,  if 
any  danger  menaced  me,  it  would  be  in  a  prison  or  bagnio  that  I 
should  seek  refuge." 

Laeenaire  was  moch  affected  at  this  reply ;  for  a  few  minutes  his 
feelings  quite  overcame  him ;  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  and  he 
addressed  me  in  the  following  remarkable  manner, — "  Ah,  Monsieor 
Appert,  if  I  could  remain  with  yoo,  under  your  immediate  antho- 
rity,  I  swear  to  yon  that  I  would  renounce  the  evil  course  of  life  I 
have  hitherto  led.  You  cannot  conceive  what  a  guilty  wretch  I  am. 
I  have  committed  murder  several  times,  but  only  when  my  brain 
has  been  in  a  state  of  frensy.  At  these  moments  I  lose  all  sense  of 
what  I  am  doing.  Often  I  think  how  diiferent  I  might  be ;  I  forget 
the  horror  of  my  past  life,  and,  in  your  presence,  on  behcdcling  your 
perfect  confidence  in  me,  murderer  as  I  am,  and  you  too  quite  in 
my  power,  I  feel  an  unaccountable  emotion.  It  is  too  wbo  make 
me  tremble;  you  are  completely  my  roaster;  speak  only,  and  I 
throw  myself  at  your  feet." 

This  scene  had  powerfully  affected  me.  I  raised  Laeenaire,  and 
took  him  by  the  hand,  and,  in  order  to  prove  to  him  how  entirely  I 
trusted  in  his  right  intentions,  I  opened  my  cash-box,  which  was 
filled  with  gold  and  bank  notes,  and,  going  towards  the  door,  said 
to  him,  "  I  have  some  directions  to  give,  Laeenaire ;  wait  here  a  few 
minutes,  and  take  care  of  my  money."  He  appeared  stupified  at 
these  words.  I  went  into  my  secretaries'  apartment,  signed  some 
letters,  and  dien  returned  to  Laeenaire,  and  closed  the  door.  "  This 
is  the  first  time  that  a  cash-box  has  been  so  well  guarded  by  you ; 
eh,  Laeenaire  ?"  This  strong  man,  this  great  criminal,  was  com- 
pletely subdued,  controlled  as  a  wild  hesaft  by  its  keeper.  He 
seemed  to  be  in  want,  so  I  offered  him  a  loan  of  thirty  fiancs.  It 
was  only  after  I  had  written  him  an  order  to  receive  this  money, 
that  he  would  accept  it.  We  both  of  us  forgot  the  secret  which  he 
was  to  confide  to  me.  Only  a  short  time  after,  diis  unfortunate  man 
was  condemned  to  death,  with  his  accomplice,  Avril ;  Francois  was 
sentenced  to  hard  labour  for  life.  A  man  visited  me  one  day,  who 
could  not  be  induced  to  give  his  name.  It  was  impossible,  how- 
ever, to  be  deceived  as  to  his  being. an  inhabitant  of  a  bagnio.  The 
character  of  his  physiognomy  and  his  manner  proved  it.  He  said 
to  me  in  a  low  tone, — for  he  came  to  me  during  one  of  my  morning 
audiences,—*'  Monsieur  Appert,  my  friend,  La^aire,  who  is  shortly 
to  be  executed,  wished  me  to  see  you.  He  did  not  ask  you  to  go  to 
him,  for  he  thought  it  might  give  you  pain,  but  he  has  desired  me 
to  thank  you,  and  to  return  the  thirty  francs  which  he  owes  you." 
The  stranger  slipped  the  money  into  my  hand,  and  disappeared, 
without  giving  me  time  to  utter  a  word. 

After  these  two  anecdotes,  you  will  easily  imagine  it  was  with 
considerable  emotion  that  I  gazed  upon  poor  Lacenaire's  head,  for 
he  had  made  a  great  impression  upon  me.  To  complete  the  account 
of  this  strange  affair,  the  executioner  sent  me  the  great-coat  which 
this  wretched  man  wore  at  the  time  of  his  execution.    During  each 


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AT   QUAI  D*ORSAY   AND   NEUILLY.  299 

day  I  recehred  pertons  of  almost  every  degree  in  the  social  scale,  and 
perhaps  a  few  anecdotes  of  these  interviews^  dinners,  and  assem- 
blies^ may  not  be  uninteresting  to  the  reader,  especially  as  I  shall 
relate  only  the  simple  facts. 

One  morning  a  littte  man  came  to  see  me,  in  a  blue  blouse,  with 
a  sort  of  helmet  on  his  head.  He  had  red  pantaloons,  great  clumspr 
shoes,  and  a  white  cotton  cravat.  His  complexion  was  very  tawny,  his 
eyes  were  black  and  piercing,  and  his  hair  resembled  a  Spaniard's  ;  he 
looked  exactly  like  a  waggoner.  **  Why,  Monsieur  Appert,  don't 
yon  remember  your  little  Bonaparte  of  the  Rochefort  bagnio  ?  I 
promised  to  come  and  see  you,  and  here  I  am  at  last  You  recollect 
that  I  was  sentenced  to  be  imprisoned  for  life.  I  have  managed  to 
escape,  but  let  me  tell  vou,  there  is  no  slight  risk  of  being  seized  in 
travelling  from  Rocherort  to  Paris."  I  soon  recognised  him,  for  I 
had  talked  to  him  a  great  deal  when  I  visited  Uie  prison  of  that 
town.  He  was  considered  a  desperate  character,  and  the  name  of 
Bonaparte,  given  to  him  by  his  companions,  shews  at  any  rate  that 
he  was  enterprising  and  courageous  in  carrying  out  his  plans.  I 
asked  him  if  he  had  firmly  resolved  to  lead  a  better  course  of  life. 
He  gave  me  the  word  of  a  galley  slave,  and  I  have  never  been  de- 
ceived in  trusting  them,  though  I  have  sometimes  been  disappointed 
when  I  wished  to  reform  them,  by  their  refusal  to  make  me  any 
promise.  People  who  have  a  more  honest  reputation  are  not  always 
so  scrupulous  in  keeping  their  word.  *'  I  shall  want  twenty  or 
five  and  twenty  francs,"  added  he  ;  *'  another  pair  of  pantaloons,  for 
these  will  surely  betray  me,  and  a  hat  in  place  of  this  prisoner's  cap. 
A  shrewd  gendarme  would  discover  it  immediately,  even  at  some 
distance."  I  made  one  condition  with  him,  that  if  I  granted  him  all 
these  things,  he  must  leave  ofi*  stealing,  and  try  to  gain  an  honest 
living  in  another  country.  When  he  had  agreed  to  all  I  re- 
quired, I  desired  my  valet  to  give  him  a  pair  of  trousers,  a  hat,  and 
tome  of  my  old  waistcoats,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  received  thirty 
francs,  he  took  his  departure.  A  short  time  afterwards  he  wrote  to 
me  from  Strasburg,  telling  me  of  his  safe  arrival  there,  after  several 
adventures  with  the  gendarmes.  He  declared  that  his  promise  should 
be  religiously  kept,  and  that  he  had  fixed  upon  the  Duchy  of  Baden 
for  his  new  country. 

This  visit  brings  to  my  mind  a  curious  circumstance  about  another 
prisoner,  who  made  his  escape  from  a  bagnio  at  Brest.  He  did  not 
dare  to  enter  Paris,  so  he  very  quietly  proceeded  to  my  country 
house  in  Lorraine,  and  when  he  found  that  I  was  absent,  he  begged 
my  steward  to  give  him  a  room  next  to  mine,  *^  for  I  am  engaged 
by  Monsieur  Appert  as  his  head,  cook,"  said  he,  ^'and  he  has  sent 
me  forward  in  order  that  I  may  make  preparations  with  you  to 
receive  him.  You  see,  my  good  fellow,  our  master  possesses  a  great 
deal  of  forethought"  I  arrived  at  night,  and  perceiving  a  stranger 
advance  to  ofier  me  assistance  in  alighting  from  the  carriage,  I  was 
about  to  ask  who  he  was,  when  he  whispered  in  my  ear, ''  I  am  your 
head-cook ;  I  will  explain  everything  to  you  by  and  by. "  ^  This 
rogue  took  nothing  from  me  during  his  unceremonious  stay  in  my 
house.  The  next  day  I  gave  him  ten  francs,  in  order  that  he  might 
return  to  Vosges,  where  lie  was  bom. 

Among  the  people  who  frequently  dined  with  me  on  Saturdays  in 
Paris  or  at  Neuilly,  were  the  Archbishop  of  Malines,  the  Viscount 

VOL.  xxiii.  y 


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300  VISITS,   DINNERS,  AND   EVENINGS, 

de  Laacazes,  Count  Lanjuinais,  Oenerab  Schrams,  Feistharmel, 
Ouillabert,  Gemeau,  de  Wielbans,  Deputies  Etienne,  Marchal,  Car- 
not,  Oosse  de  Oorre.  Oaugnier  ;  Messieurs  Arnault^  De  Jouy,  Ad- 
roiral  Laplace^  Eugene  de  Pradele,  De  Crusy,  Dutrone,  De  6erente> 
Oudard  Lamy,  Ouillaume,  of  the  house  of  Orleans,  Professors  Va- 
lette,  Casimir  Broussais,  Messieurs  Fourrier,  Considerant,  Doctors 
Hutin^  Chapelain^  Maldigny,  Destouche,  Lord  Durham,  Dr.  Bow- 
ring,  peer  and  member  of  Uie  English  parliament ;  Alexander  Dumas, 
Balzac ;  the  painters  Allaux,  Roqueplan,  Schnetz,  Picot,  Flandin, 
Lepaule,  Borget,  Dumoulin ;  Gamier,  the  engraver,  the  friend  of 
my  boyhood ;  Huet,  CamiUe  Jube,  Gourjales  Gentilhomme ;  young 
authors.  Captains  Peney,  De  Cartousi^re,  Mons.  Jullien  of  Paris, 
my  excellent  friend  and  notary,  M.  Ancelle ;  M.  Labie,  the  mayor 
of  Paris ;  the  much  esteemed  and  regretted  Monsieur  Amet 

These  riuniont  of  remarkable  people  were  extremely  interesting. 
Sometimes  I  invited  Vidocq  and  Samson,  the  chief  executioner  of  Paris, 
the  son  of  the  man  who  executed  the  king  and  Marie  A  ntoinette  and 
other  illustrious  victims  in  1793.  All  my  friends  begged  to  join 
my  party  when  these  two  last  persons  were  to  be  my  guests.  As  I 
never  received  more  than  twelve  at  dinner,  it  will  be  readily  ima- 
gined, afler  the  long  list  of  people  I  have  mentioned  as  being  in  the 
habit  of  dining  with  me,  that  I  was  obliged  to  give  a  succession  of 
entertainments,  in  order  to  pay  attention  to  everybody,  like  the 
ministers,  when  they  wish  to  bring  over  the  House  of  Peers  to  their 
side  of  the  question.  The  Archbishop  of  Malines,  and  Monsieur 
Arnault,  were  the  only  two  of  my  friends  who  refused  to  meet  Sam- 
son, and  I  honestly  confess  that  I  shared  in  their  prejudice.  The 
following  is  a  description  of  one  of  my  dinners,  it  was  the  first  to 
which  Samson,  the  executioner,  was  invited,  and  took  place  on  Good 
Friday.  The  manner  in  which  I  secured  him  for  my  party  was  rather 
singular.  Vidocq,  whom  I  had  known  some  time  before,  was  dining 
with  me,  and  we  were  unanimously  expressing  our  desire  to  get  up 
another  merry  meeting  as  soon  as  possible.  We  determined  that 
Samson  should  be  of  the  party,  at  least  if  he  would  accept  the  invi- 
tation, and  we  were  not  quite  certain  that  we  could  induce  him  to 
join  us,  for,  from  the  nature  of  his  character  and  employment,  he 
visited  very  few  people.  *^  It  shall  be  my  business  to  invite  him," 
said  Vidocq ;  "  leave  it  to  me,  I  *11  take  care  that  he  comes.*'  About 
the  middle  of  the  following  day,  a  tall,  gaunt  man,  dressed  in  black, 
and  wearing  the  old  fieishioned  frill,  and  a  huge  gold  watch  and  chain, 
inquired  if  he  could  see  me,  but  refused  to  give  his  name.  When 
my  secretary  mentioned  that  somebody  wished  to  speak  to  me,  he 
added,  that  he  thought  my  visitor  was  a  person  of  condition,  he  ap- 
peared very  much  like  the  mayor  of  some  district,  who  was  going  to 
preside  at  a  marriage  at  the  mayoralty,  or  who  was  about  to  place 
himself  at  the  head  of  a  municipal  deputation  to  the  king.  I  de- 
sired that  he  might  be  introduced,  and  after  I  had  offered  him  a 
chair,  I  asked  whom  I  had  the  honour  of  receiving.  *'  Monsieur 
Appert,**  said  he,  *<  I  have  long  entertained  great  respect  for  you, 
but  if  I  had  not  been  assured  of  your  kind  invitation  for  next  Friday, 
I  should  never  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling  upon  you,  for  I  am 
the  chief  executioner."  I  could  not  help  feeling  a  slight  repugnance 
when  I  gazed  upon  this  man.     Since  I  first  visited  the  prisons  he  had 


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AT    QUAI   d'oRSAY   AND  NEXJILLY.  301 

executed  the  chief  part  of  the  unfortunate  criminals  whom  I  had  at- 
tended in  their  last  moments.  "  I  have  invited  you  for  next  Friday,  Mr. 
Samson,  and  I  hope  I  may  depend  upon  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you." 
**  As  your  invitation  was  brought  me  by  Vidocq,  with  whose  tricks 
I  am  well  acquainted,  I  thought  I  would  come  and  ascertain  the  truth  of 
it  from  you.  I  live  generally  so  quietly,  and  am  only  in  the  habit  of 
mixing  with  my  colleagues,  the  chief  number  of  whom  are  my  rela- 
tions, that  I  did  not  exactly  know  how  to  trust  Vidocq's  story,  but 
I  shall  be  most  happy  to  accept  your  invitation.  Monsieur  Appert, 
for,  as  I  said  before,  I  have  been  long  anxious  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance." This  piece  of  politeness  on  the  part  of  an  executioner,  ap- 
r^ared  to  me  rather  original.  I  permitted  him  to  take  his  leave,  for 
knew  I  should  have  plenty  of  time  to  talk  to  him  on  Friday. 

When  Friday  arrived,  all  my  guests  were  punctual  to  a  minute. 
My  party  consisted  of  Lord  Durham,  Messrs.  Bowring,  De  Jouy,  Ad- 
mirfd  Laplace,  Etienne,  Gaugnier,  Muel,  Doublat,  Hector  Davelouis, 
Vidocq,  and  Samson.  I  placed  the  last  on  my  right  hand,  and  Vidocq 
on  my  led ;  my  other  friends  disposed  themselves  as  they  pleased. 
Samson  looked  very  grave,  and  did  not  seem  quite  at  his  ease  with 
all  these  great  people,  as  he  called  them,  for  he  whispered  his  opi- 
nion in  my  ear.  Vidocq,  on  the  contrary,  was  full  of  life  and  wir» 
making  all  sorts  of  epigrams,  and  joining  with  spirit  in  the  conversa- 
tion. He  said  jestingly  to  the  executioner,  <'  You  are  not  aware, 
perhaps,  Mr.  Samson,  that  I  oflen  gave  you  employment  when  I  was 
commander  of  the  safety  brigade."  ''I  know  that  too  well,  Mr. 
Vidocq,"  replied  the  executioner ;  and  then^  putting  his  head  down 
to  my  ear,  he  observed,  <*  I  would  not  have  met  that  fellow  any  where 
but  at  your  house :  he  is  a  good-for-nothing  rogue."  Vidocq  whis- 
pered to  me  almost  at  the  same  time,  "  That  Samson  is  a  good  fellow, 
but  it  seems  very  odd  to  me  to  dine  at  the  same  table  with  him." 
My  guests  soon  entered  into  conversation  with  the  executioner. 

M.  de  Jouy. — **  Yours  is  a  very  terrible  office,  Mons.  Samson,  yet, 
in  shedding  blood,  you  only  carry  out  the  extreme  'penalty  of  the 
law." 

Samson. — '*  You  are  right,  sir ;  I  am  only  the  instrument,  it  is  the 
law  which  condemns." 

Lord  Durham. — *'  How  many  persons  have  you  already  beheaded, 
Mr.  Samson  ?" 

Samson. — <<  About  three  hundred  and  sixty,  my  lord." 

Dr.  Bowring. — «Do  not  your  feelings  frequently  overcome  you 
when  you  are  on  the  point  of  securing  the  poor  creatures  to  the 
block?" 

Samson. — "  Tliat  is  the  business  of  my  assistants,  as  well  as  to  cut 
the  hair  and  place  the  baskets  ready  to  receive  the  body  and  head  ; 
I  have  only  to  see  that  everything  goes  forward  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible, and  to  slip  the  cord  which  suspends  the  axe.'* 

M.  de  Jouy. — <<  Do  you  think  that  they  suffer  at  all  after  the 
stroke?" 

Samson. — <<  Undoubtedly ;  the  face  is  distorted  with  convulsions, 
the  eyes  roll,  and  the  head  appears  violently  agitated.  I  was  near 
my  father  when  he  was  compelled  to  execute  poor  Louis  the  Six- 
teenth, to  whom  our  family  was  much  attached.  He  was  obliged, 
according  to  the  directions  he  hadreceived,  to  take  up  the  head  by 

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302  EVENINGS   AT  QUAI   D'ORSAY  AND  NEUILLY. 

its  hair,  and  show  it  to  the  people ;  but  when  he  beheld  the  calm  and 
benevolent  expression  which  the  features  still  retained,  he  was  com- 
pletely overwhelmed  by  his  feelings.  Fortunately  I  was  dose  at 
hand>  and  being  rather  tall  and  large,  I  succeeded  in  sheltering  him 
from  the  gaze  of  the  multitude ;  for  if  his  emotion  had  been  perceived^ 
we  should  have  been  certainly  guillotined  in  our  turn.  Soon  after 
these  sad  events,  I  became  captain  in  the  artillery ;  but  my  father 
said  to  me  very  sensibly  one  day,  <  Samson,  my  office  will  faU  to  your 
lot ;  it  has  brought  us  more  than  twelve  thousand  pounds — an  enor- 
mous sum  at  that  time.  You  will  do  well  to  take  it,  my  boy,  for 
there  will  always  be  certain  prejudices  which  will  prove  obstacles  to 
your  rising  beyond  a  certain  point ;  and  they  may  even  prevent  you 
from  remaining  captain.  Our  ancestors  have  exercised  the  office  of 
executioner  for  more  than  a  century  :  you  will  be  able  to  live  quietly 
and  comfortably,  and,  at  all  events,  nobody  will  have  any  right  to 
interfere  with  your  affairs.' " 

Vidocq. — '*  Your  father  ought  to  have  added, '  Except  those  people 
whose  tliroats  you  cut.'" 

Samson.— <*  No  jesting,  Mr.  Vidocq ;  I  am  relating  facts." 

Vidocq.—**  Yes,  alas  I*' 

These  words  wounded  the  executioner  to  the  quick.  **  That  roan 
is  very  coarse,"  whispered  he :  "  you  may  see  that  he  is  not  accus- 
tomed to  good  society ;  he  has  not  my  deportment.** 

M.  de  Jouy. — **  Before  the  invention  of  the  guillotine,  M.  Samson, 
your  ancestors  made  use  of  a  sword  which  struck  off  the  head  at  a 
single  blow,  did  they  not?" 

Samson. — **I  have  the  terrible  weapon  still  in  my  possession, 
M.  de  Jouy ;  it  is  a  Damascus  blade,  and  was  worth  twelve  hundred 
pounds  at  the  time  it  was  bought  at  Constantinople.  My  father 
marked  the  side  with  which  he  cut  off  the  Marquis  de  Lally's  head 
with  a  piece  of  thread,  as  well  as  that  which  beheaded  the  Chevalier 
de  la  Barre.  When  I  was  much  younger  than  I  am  now,  and  rather 
more  fond  of  adventure^  I  remember  going  out  one  night  with  this 
long  weapon  concealed  under  my  great-coat  Some  men  attacked 
me  for  the  purpose  of  emptying  my  pockets,  and  indeed  I  might 
have  been  murdered.  They  were  at  least  eight  in  number,  and 
I  knew  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  struggle  with  so  many  rogues; 
so  I  had  recourse  to  a  little  daring.  I  darted  upon  them  with 
my  huge  sword,  shouting  out  in  a  croaking  voice,  *  Don't  you  know 
that  I  am  the  executioner  of  Paris  ?*  They  all  took  to  their  heels  at 
these  terrible  words,  as  if  I  had  been  a  thunderbolt  to  grind  them  to 
powder." 

Lord  Durham. — **  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  the  guillotine  in 
operation,  Mr.  Samson." 

Samson. — **  You  have  only  to  fix  a  day  with  M.  Appert,  my  lord, 
and  I  will  have  it  put  together  by  my  assistants  in  the  coach-house, 
where  it  is  kept ;  for  it  is  always  taken  to  pieces  after  every  execu- 
tion. The  coach-builder,  in  whose  house  it  is  at  present,  lives  not  far 
from  my  house,  in  the  Rue  des  Marais  du  Temple." 

The  conversation,  which  had  been  more  particularly  addressed  to 
Samson,  now  became  general,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  Vidocq 
shared  our  attention,  and,  as  is  his  wont,  he  was  very  agreeable  and 
amusing. 


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303 
THE  YANKEE  AMONGST  THE  MERMAIDS. 

▲  YARN,  BY  ▲  CAPB  CODDBR« 

Do  I  b*leve  in  the  sea-sarpiDt  ?  You  might  as  well  ax  me  if  I 
b'leved  in  the  compass,  or  thought  the  log  could  lie.  I've  never  seed 
the  critter  myself,  cos  I  hain't  cruised  in  them  waters  as  he  locates 
himself  in,  not  since  I  started  on  my  first  voyage  in  the  Confidence 
whaler,  Capting  Coffing ;  but  I  recking  I  've  got  a  brother  as  hails  from 
Nahant,  that  sees  him  handsome  every  year,  and  knows  the  latitude 
and  longitude  of  the  beast  just  as  well  as  I  knows  the  length  o'  the 
futtock  shrouds  o'  the  fore  tops. 

Brother  Zac's  pretty  'cute,  and  kalkilates  firom  actil  observation  how 
much  the  sarpint  grows  every  year;  and  then  he  gets  sifferin',  and  fig- 
gerin*,and  reckonin',  tiU  he  makes  out  how  tamal  long  it  took  the  sarpint 
to  extensify  himself  to  that  almighty  size— offerin'  to  prove  that  the 
critter  was  one  o'  them  ar'  creeping  things  what  Commodore  Noah  took 
into  his  boat  at  that  ar*  big  rain  as  the  Bible  tells  on ;  and  perhaps,  as 
Zac  says,  he  is  the  real,  original,  etamal  sarpint,  as  got  the  weather- 
gage  of  Mrs.  Eve,  and  gammoned  her  to  lay  piratical  hands  on  her 
husband's  stock  of  apples  jest  as  he  was  gettin  his  cider  fixins  ready 
in  tlie  fall.  And,  by  gauly,  old  fellers,  there  aint  nothiu'  agin  natur' 
in  that  yam,  ny  ther — for  brother  Zac  says,  he  can  prove  that  that  ar* 
sarpint  must  have  partaking  o'  the  tree  o'  life  as  growed  in  the  gard- 
ing  of  Eding^  afore  them  first  squatters  what  had  located  themselves 
thar*  was  druv*  off  by  the  angel  Gabriel  for  makin*  free  with  the  go- 
vernor's trees.  Well,  there  was  a  nigger  as  I  knowed  once  down  south, 
'mongst  them  cotting  plantashings — and  this  here  darkey  used  to  get 
his  rum  aboard  radier  stiff — so,  one  night,  bavin'  stowed  away  a 
soakin'  cargo,  he  found  the  navigation  pretty  considerable  severe,  and 
after  tackin'  larbord  and  starbord,  makin'  short  legs  to  winderd,  and 
long  uns  to  lewerd,  he  missed  stays,  and  brought  up  in  a  ditch. 
While  the  darkey  was  lettin'  off  the  steam  and  snorin'  himself  sober, 
a  mud  tortle,  about  the  size  of  our  capting's  epillitts,  crawls  right 
slick  into  his  open  mouth,  and  wriggles  stret  down  into  his  innerds. 
Waell,  the  nigger  felt  the  effects  o'  too  much  tortle  to  his  dying  day 
— and  that 's  the  case,  I  guess,  with  the  sarpint— for  havin'  fed  in  his 
infancy  on  the  fruit  o*  the  tree  o'  life,  he  was  obligated  to  keep  on 
livin'  ever  arter,  and  can't  die  no  how  he  can  fix  it.  And  so  he  keeps 
on  a  gettin'  longer  every  week,  like  a  purser's  account,  and  nobody 
can't  guess  what  for,  nyther. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  marmaid  ?  Waell,  then,  I  reckon  you  'd  best 
shut  up,  cos  I  have — and  many  on  'em ;  and  marmen  too,  and  mar- 
misses  and  marmasters,  of  all  sizes  from  babbies  not  bigger  nor  roac- 
krels  to  regular  six-feeters,  with  starns  like  a  full  grow'd  porpus.  I've 
been  at  a  marmaids'  tea-party,  and  afler  larnin'  the  poor  ignorant 
scaly  critters  how  to  splice  the  main  brace,  I  left  the  hull  bilin'  on  'em 
blazin'  drunk. 

You  see  when  our  craft  was  cruisin'  up  the  Arches,  we  cast  anchor 
one  mornin'  in  pretty  deep  water  just  abrest  of  a  small  green  island 
as  wasn't  down  in  the  chart,  and  hadn't  got  no  name,  nyther.    But 


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304  THE   YANKEE 

our  captiDg  kDowed  what  he  was  arter,  abeout  as  right  as  ninepence^ 
cos  a  small  skewner  came  along-side  pretty  sune,  freighted  with 
brandy  and  wine  for  the  officers,  what  they  'd  ordered  for  their  own 
private  stores.  Waell,  the  slings  was  run  up  to  the  end  o'  the  main- 
yard^  and  the  waisters  were  busy  hoistin'  up  the  barrils,  when  a  cask 
o'  brandy  slipped  from  the  slings  as  it  was  being  canted  round,  and 
dropped  right  splash  into  the  sea,  sinkin'  right  away.  Upon  'zamina- 
tioning  the  manifest,  it  proved  to  be  the  best  cask  o'  brandy  in  the 
skewner,  imported  fVom  Boardo  direct  for  the  capting  himsei£     He 

raised  a  gretty  muss,  I  guess,  right  off -the  reel.    "  You  d etarnal 

lazy  suckers,"  said  he,  '*  look  here  I  take  all  the  boats'  anchors,  lash 
'em  together  in  tews  so  as  to  form  grapnels  o'  four  pints  each,  and 
drag  all  about  here  for  that  ar'  brandy — and  mind  you  find  it,  or  I  '11 
put  every  mother's  son  of  you  on  short  allowance  o'  rye  for  the  next 
month." 

Waell,  the  boats  was  ordered  out,  and  a  gropin*  we  went  I  was 
placed  in  the  jolly,  with  Sy  Davis  and  Pete  Slinks,  and  a  middy  to 
direct.  The  middy  was  a  pretty  considerable  smart  fellow,  and  jest  as 
we  was  puttin'  off,  he  nodded  up  to  the  chaplin  as  was  leanin'  over  the 
side,  and  says,  ^  What  say  you  to  an  hour's  float  upon  this  here  glassy 
sea  ? "  The  parson  was  down  by  the  man  ropes  in  a  minnit,  and  off 
we  sot  a  fishin'  for  the  brandy  tub. 

The  current  ran  pretty  slick  by  the  side  o'  the  little  island,  and  the 
second  luff,  who  was  in  the  cutter,  ordered  us  to  go  ahead  and  watch 
along  the  shore  jest  to  see  if  the  tub  wam't  rolled  up  there  by  the 
tide.  We  pretended  to  look  right  hard  for  the  tub,  till  we  made  the 
lee  o'  the  island,  and  then  if  we  didn't  resolve  to  take  it  easy  and  run 
the  noose  o'  the  jolly  into  the  yaller  sand  o'  the  shore,  there  ain't  no 
snakes.  I  held  on  in  the  stam  by  the  grapnel,  and  the  parson  pulled 
out  of  his  pocket  a  good-sized  sample  bottle  o'  the  new  stuff  as  he  'd 
jest  bought,  and  wanted  the  middy  to  taste — and  arter  passin'  their 
ideas  on  the  licker,  the  chaplain  gave  us  men  a  pretty  stiff  horn  a 
piece,  now  I  tell  vou — and  first  rate  stuff  it  was,  I  swow.  It  iled  the 
parson's  tongue  like  all  out  doors — it  took  him  to  talk — all  abeout  the 
old  original  anteek  names  o'  the  islands  that  laid  in  spots  all  about 
tbar' — classic  ground,  as  he  called  it,  and  a  pretty  yam  he  did  spin 
tew.  He  talked  about  the  island  of  Candy  whar'  the  sweetest  gals 
was  in  all  creation  or  any  whar'  else — and  of  a  great  chief  called  Beau 
Lasses  or  Molasses,  who  killed  a  one-eyed  giant  of  a  blacksmith 
named  Polly  Famous,  by  spitting  in  his  eye — and  about  a  fireman 
named  Henearus,  who  carried  out  an  old  man,  one  Ann  Kysis,  on 
his  shoulders  when  his  house  was  a  fire ;  for  ^ou  see  many  o'  them 
old  Grecian  men  had  wimming's  names,  and  wisey  warsey  tew.  But 
what  took  my  cheese  was  the  parson's  tellin'  us  abeout  tew  fellows 
as  got  up  the  biggest  chunk  of  a  fight,  and  kept  right  at  it  for  ten 
years  stret  out,  and  all  abeout  a  gall  named  Ellen  what  skeeted  from 
her  moorings,  and  run  off  to  Paris.  Then  the  parson  tried  to  pint 
out  the  island  of  Lip*salve,  where  a  she- conjuror,  called  Sarcy,  from 
her  boldness,  used  to  keep  a  hull  skeul  of  singin'  girls  called  syringes, 
cos  they  sucked  the  sailors  ashore  and  then  chawed  them  right  up 
like  a  piece  o'  sweet  cavendish*  Then  the  middy,  who  'd  been  keepin' 
dark  and  lay  in'  low  all  this  time,  show'd  his  broughtens-up,  and  let 
fly  a  hull  broadside  at  the  parson  about  them  ar'  syringes  and  other 


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AMONGST  THE   MERMAIDS.  305 

fabblus  wimming,  such  as  King  Nepching's  wife  Ann  Thracite,  and 
her  she  Try-it-ons,  and  Neer-a-heads,  and  river  galls,  right  down  to 
Marroaids.* 

Wael],  you  see,  all  this  here  talk  made  us  dry  as  thunder— so  the 
chaplin  said  he  guessed  the  sun  was  over  the  fore-yard^  and  baled  us 
out  another  horn  o'  licker  all  round.  Then  he  took  a  ''spell  ho  I"  at 
the  jawin'  tackle,  and  allowed  there  was  a  river  in  Jarminy  where  all 
our  Dutch  imegrants  hails  from,  and  that  a  gall  used  to  locate 
herself  in  a  whirlpool,  and  come  up  on  moonshiney  nights  and  sing 
a  hull  bookful  o'  songs  as  turned  the  heads  o'  all  the  young  fellers  in 
them  parts.  Waell,  reports  ruz  up  as  she'd  a  hull  cargo  o*  gold 
stowed  away  at  the  bottom  o'  the  whirlpool,  and  many  a  wild  young 
Jarman,  seauced  by  the  gall's  singin'  and  hopes  o*  gold,  lept  into  the 
river,  and  warn*t  heered  on  never  arter.  These  matters  hurt  the 
young  gall's  kariter,  and  the  old  folks,  who  'd  always  allowed  that  she 
was  a  kind  of  goddess,  began  to  think  that  she  warn't  the  clear  grit, 
and  the  young  fellers  said  her  singin'  was  no  great  shakes,  and  that 
her  beauty  warn't  the  thing  it  was  cracked  up  to  be. 

When  the  chaplin  had  expended  his  yam,  he  sarved  out  another 
allowance  o'  licker.  I  recking  that  he  was  the  raal  grit  for  a  parson, 
—always  doin'  as  he'd  be  done  by,  and  practisin'  a  darned  sight  more 
than  he  preached.  ''  T  aint  Christian-like,"  says  he,  '*  to  drink  by 
one's  self,  and  a  raal  tar  never  objects  to  share  his  grog  with  a  ship- 
mate." Them's  the  gin-a-wine  Bunker  Hill  sentiments  of  spiritual 
salvashing,  and  kinder  touch  the  bottom  of  a  sailor's  heart ! 

The  middy  then  uncoiled  another  length  o*  cable  abeout  the  fab- 
belus  wimmiug  o'  the  sea,  and  said  it  were  a  tarnation  pretty  idea, 
that  them  angels  from  hewing  as  ruled  the  airth  should  keep  watch 
over  the  treasures  o'  the  water.  Then  he  telled  a  yarn  consarnin' 
the  capting  of  a  marchantman  as  was  tradin'  in  the  South  Seas,  lay  in 
at  anchor,  becalmed,  one  Sunday  mornin'  abeout  five  bells,  when  a 
strange  hail  was  heerd  from  under  the  bows  o'  the  crafl,  and  the 
hands  on  deck  as  answered  the  hail  seed  somebody  in  the  water  with 
jest  his  head  and  arms  stickin'  out,  and  holdin'  on  to  the  dolphin 
striker.  Waell,  I  guess  they  pretty  soon  throw'd  him  a  rope,  and 
hauled  him  aboard,  and  then  they  seed  he  was  a  regular  built  mar- 
man,  one  half  kinder  nigger,  and  tother  half  kinder  fish,  but  altoge- 
ther more  kinder  fish  than  kinder  nigger.  So,  as  I  was  tellin'  you, 
they  got  him  aboard,  and  he  made  an  enquerry  arter  the  capting, 
who  come  out  o'  his  cabing,  and  the  marman  made  him  a  first-rate 
dancin'-skeul  bow,  and  says  in  ginnewine  English, 

''  Capting,  I  sorter  recking  it  ain't  entered  into  your  kalkilation  as 
this  here  is  Sabber-day,  for  you've  dropped  your  tarnal  big  anchor 
right  in  front  o*  our  meetin-house  door,  and  I'm  d — d  if  eeny  of  our 
folks  can  go  to  prayers." 

Waell,  the  capting  was  rayther  taken  aback,  and  the  calm,  you  see, 
overlayin'  him  in  that  thar'  hot  latitude,  had  sot  his  back  up  above  a 

*  If  the  reader  has  not  refreshed  his  academical  lore  by  a  recent  dip  into  Homer 
and  Virgil,  or  Lempriere,  the  foggy  nature  of  the  sailor's  description  may  render 
an  explanation  necessary ;  but  the  classicist  will  easily  recognise  the  isle  of  Candia, 
Ulysses  and  the  Cydops,  Polyphemus,  Eneas,  *'  who  from  the  flames  of  Troy 
upon  his  shoulders  the  old  Anchises  bore  ;**  Helen  of  Troy,  the  isle  of  Calypso, 
where  Circe  dwelt  with  her  Syrens,  and  Neptune^s  wife,  Amphitrite,  and  the 
Tritons  and  Nereids. 


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306  THE   YANKEE 

bit ;  and  besides  that,  he  felt  considerable  streeked  at  bein'  roused 
out  o*  his  mornin's  nap  for  nothin*;  so  altogether  he  felt  sorter  wolfish, 
and  looking  at  the  strannger  darned  savagerous^  says^ 

"  Who  the are  you  T 

This  here  speech  put  the  marman's  dander  up,  for  he  says  r^tit  sassy^ 
<<  I  guess  Tm  appinted  deacon  over  all  the  marmans  and  mannaids 
in  these  here  parts,  and  111  jest  trouble  you  to  treat  me  with  the  re- 
spect due  iew  9,  s.trannger  and  a  gentleman." 

Waell,  I  recking  the  capting's  eben^er  fcas  roused,  for  he  seized 
hold  of  a  harpoon  that  was  lay  in'  on  the  fowksell,  and  hollered  to  the 
marman, 

'<  You  fishy  vaggybundy  make  tracks  out  o'  my  ship,  you  sammony- 
tailed  son  of  a  sea-cook^  or  I'll  drive  the  grains  slide  through  your 
scaly  carkissy  I  wilL" 

Waelli  the  critter  seeiA*^  as  the  capting  meant  dannger,  made  bat  one 
flop  with  his  tail,  and  skeeted  over  Uie  side  o'  the  ship  into  the  water. 
The  capting  did  not  weigh  anchor,  nor  nothin' ;  only  durin'  the  night 
the  cable  was  cut  by  the  macmen,  and  the  ship  drifted  on  tew  a  koml 
reef,  and  rubbed  a  tarnal  bi^  hole  in  her  plankin\ 

"  That's  a  good  yarn/'  said  the  parson,  «<  and  I  b'leve  it's  true  as 
gospel.  Nothin's  impossible  in  natur,  and  the  hull  o*  these  strange 
fixins  as  we  hears  tell  on,  is  nothin'  more  than  links  in  the  almighty 
great  chain  cable  of  universal  natur'.  Bats  is  the  link  o'  betweenitir 
as  connects  the  natur's  o'  fowls  o'  the  air  and  the  beasts  o'  the  field. 
Seals  and  alligators  links  the  naturs  o'  beasts  and  fishes.  Babboons 
and  apes  links  beasts  with  humans ;  and  why  should  not  marmaids  be 
the  links  between  humans  and  the  fishes  o'  the  sea  ?  But  there's  the 
signal  for  the  boat's  return.  Here's  jest  a  leetle  horn  a*piece  in  the 
bottle — let's  licker  one  more  round,  and  then  absquattle." 

We  pulled  quietly  back  to  the  ship.  The  barrel  of  brandy  had  not 
been  found,  and  I  wish  I  may  be  sniggered  if  tiie  capting  did  not  fly 
into  the  biggest  kihd  o'  quarter-deck  passion  I  ever  did  see.  He 
stormed  great  guns  and  fired  hull  broadsides  at  the  boats'  crews, 
swearin'  that  they  should  keep  on  dredgin'  till  the  tub  was  found  if  it 
was  the  day  arter  eternity.  So,  you  see,  the  hands  was  piped  to  din- 
ner, but  I  was  ordered  tew  keep  in  Uie  boats,  and  take  keare  they 
didn't  stave  each  other. 

Waell,  I  laid  down  in  the  capting's  gig,  and  what  with  the  parson's 
licker,  and  the  talk  abeout  marmaids,  and  syringes,  and  water-galls, 
and  one  thing  and  tother,  a  very  preity  muss  began  mixing  in  my 
brain  pan.  So,  as  I  was  layin'  comfortably  moored  in  the  starn  sheets, 
with  my  head  a  leetle  over  the  boat's  quarter,  I  thought  it  highly  un- 
wrong  that  the  brandy  tub  hadn't  been  fotched  up,  and  that  the  men 
usin'  the  grapnels  must  have  shirked  as  we  did,  cos,  if  they  sarched 
as  they  oughter,  they  must  have  seed  the  barrel,  for  the  water  was  so 
petickler  clear  that  you  could  dissarn  the  crabs  crawlin'  over  the  kor- 
ril  rocks  at  the  bottom  o'  twenty  fiiUiom. 

Waell,  while  I  was  lookin'  into  the  ocean  to  see  if  I  could  light 
upon  the  barrel,  a  leetle  o'  the  largest  fish  I  ever  did  see,  come  and 
swum  right  close  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  jest  under  the  boats. 
Then  it  kept  risin'  and  risin',  till  I  seed  its  long  fins  were  shaped  like 
men's  arms;  and  when  it  come  near  the  sarfis,  it  turned  on  its 
back,  and  then  I  seed  a  human  face !    I  know'd  at  once  that  it  was  a 


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'''A'^y''''y<7^/?-/U^    ,Z';K^Zy?r^:'y?r^/-    /r^^.'  '.  '^'^'■^<' 


•^  ^/T^./z/y/^f 


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,-,;ir.T,    T?nr-h«Ta   "R#^rl«»/'/   1R48 


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AMONGST  THB   MERMAIDS.  307 

mamoaidy  or  a  marman — or  one  o'  them  amfibberus  crittera  called 
fabbelus  syringes,  as  the  chaplain  had  beeii  spinnia'  hit  yarns  abeout. 
So,  the  critter  popt  its  head  up  jest  above  the  water,  which  was 
smooth  as  glass^  and  a  little  smoother  tew  by  a  darned  sight,  and  jest 
as  clear  and  jest  as  shiny ;  and  says  he  to  me, 

^'Look  here,  strannger,  you  and  your  shipmates  ain't  doin'  the  gen- 
teel thing  to  me  no  how  you  can  fix  it,  for  they're  play  in'  old  hub 
with  my  garding  grounds  and  oyster  beds  by  scratchin'  and  rakin' 
'em  all  over  with  them  ar'  darned  anchors  and  grapnel  fixins,  in  a 
manner  that's  harrowin'  to  my  feelins.  If  the  capting  wants  his 
thundemation  licker  tub,  let  him  jest  B&ad  eeny  decent  Christian 
down  with  me,  and  Til  gin  it  him." 

Waell,  I'm  not  goin*  to  say  that  I  didn't  feel  kinder  skeered,  but 
the  chaplain's  yarns  had  rulJbed  the  rough  edge  off,  and  the  notion  o' 
findin'  the  capting's  cask  pleased  me  mightily,  cos  I  knowed  it  would 
tickle  the  old  man  like  all  creation,  and  sartinglyget  me  three  or  four 
liberty  days  for  shore  goin'  when  we  returned  to  Port  Mahon.  80f 
as  I  hadn't  on  nothin'  petickler  as  would  spile,  only  a  blue  cotting 
shirt  and  sail-doth  pantys,  and  the  weather  bein'  most  uncommon 
warm,  I  jest  told  the  marman  I  was  ready,  and  tortled  quietly  over 
the  boat's  side  into  the  blue  transparent  sea. 

The  marman  grappled  me  by  the  fist,  and  we  soon  touched  bottom 
now  I  tell  ye.  I  found  as  I  could  walk  easy  enough,  only  the  water 
swayed  me  abeout  jest  as  if  I  war  a  leetle  tight,  but  I  didn't  seem  to 
suffer  nothin'  for  want  of  breathy  ny  then 

We  soon  reached  whar'  the  brandy  cask  was  lyin'  right  under  the 
ship's  keel,  which  accounts  for  it's  not  bein'  seen  nor  nothin'  by  the 
boats'  crews.  I  felt  so  everlastingly  comical  abeout  findin'  the  tub, 
that  I  told  the  half-bred  dolphing  feller,  as  pinted  it  out,  that  if  I 
knowed  how  to  tap  it,  I  wish  I  might  die  if  I  wouldn't  give  him  a 
gallon  o'  the  stuff  as  a  salvage  fee. 

**  What's  in  it  ?"  says  the  marman. 

''  Why,  licker,"  says  I. 

«<  Waell,"  says  the  marman,  <<so  I  heerd  them  scrapin'  fellers  in 
the  boats  say ;  but  I  guess  I've  licker  enough  to  last  my  time,  tho'  I 
recking  your  licker  is  something  stronger  than  salt  water,  s^in'  it's 
hooped  up  in  that  almighty  way." 

*'Why,  you  lubber,"  says  I,  "it's  brandy — the  raal  ginnewine 
coneyhack. 

<' And  what's  that?"  says  the  marman. 

'*  Why,  dew  tell— want  to  know  ?"  says  I.  "  Have  you  lived  to 
your  time  o'  life  without  tastin'  spirretus  licker  ?  Waell,  1  swow,  you 
oughter  be  the  commodore  of  all  them  cold  water  clubs,  and  perpe- 
tual president  of  all  temp'rance  teetotallers.  Go  ahead,  matey,  pilot 
the  way  to  your  shanty,  and  I'll  roll  the  barrel  arter  you.  I'll  sune 
give  you  a  drink  o'  licker  that  will  jest  take  the  shirt  tail  off  eeny 
thing  you  ever  did  taste,  now  I  tell  you." 

Waell,  the  critter  flopped  ahead,  for  you  see  it's  the  natur'  o'  the 
marmen,  seein'  as  they've  no  legs,  only  a  fish's  tail  what's  bent  under 
them,  jest  like  the  lower  part  of  the  letter  J,  to  make  way  by  flop* 
pin'  thmr  stams  up  and  down,  and  paddlin'  with  their  hancfs — some- 
thin'  between  a  swim  and  a  swagger — ^but  the  way  they  get  through 
the  water  is  a  caution.  I  rolled  the  tub  along  over  the  smooth  white 
shiny  sand,  and  the  crabs  and  lobsters  skeeted  off  right  and  left  sides 


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SOS  THE   YANKEE 

out  o'  ray  way  regular  skeered,  and  big  fishes  of  all  shapes  and  makes, 
with  bristlin'  fins,  swum  close  alongside  me,  and  looked  at  me  quite 
awful  with  their  small  gooseberry  eyes,  as  much  as  to  say  **  What  the 
nation  art  you  at  ?" 

Bymeby,  the  marman  brought  up  in  front  of  ray ther  a  largeish  cave 
or  grotto  of  rock  and  shell  work,  kivered  with  korril  and  sea  weed. 
So,  you  see,  the  tub  was  put  right  on  eend  in  one  corner ;  I  made 
an  enquirry  o*  the  marman  if  he  had  a  gimblet,  and  he  said  he  b'leved 
there  was  sitch  a  thing  in  the  hold  or  cellar ;  he'd  found  a  carpenter's 
tool-chest  in  a  wreck  a  few  miles  to  the  easterd,  and  he  fotched  away 
six  or  seving  o'  the  leetle  fixins^  thinkin'  they  might  be  useful  to  him. 
So  he  opened  the  back  door,  and  hailed  a  young  marman  to  bring  him 
the  gimblet. 

Seeing  as  there  was  no  benches  nor  nothin'  to  sit  down  on,  which 
marmen  and  marmaids  don't  desire,  cos  they've  no  sittin'  parts  to 
their  bodies,  which  is  all  fish  from  their  waistbands,  I  jest  sot  on  the 
top  o*  the  brandy  tub,  and  took  an  observation  of  the  critter  before 
me.  His  face  was  reglar  human,  only  it  looked  rayther  tawney  and 
flabby,  like  a  biled  nigger,  with  fishy  eyes,  and  a  mouth  like  a  huge 
tom  cod.  His  hair  hung  stret  down  his  shoulders,  and  was  coarse 
and  thick,  like  untwisted  rattlin' ;  his  hands  were  somethin*  like  a 
goose's  paw,  only  the  fingers  were  longer  and  thicker ;  and  his  body 
was  not  exactly  like  an  Injin's,  nor  a  nigger's,  nor  a  white  man's — nor 
was  it  yaller,  nor  blue,  nor  green — but  a  sorter  altogether  kinder 
mixed  up  colour,  lookin'  as  if  it  were  warranted  to  stand  the  weather. 
Jest  abeout  midships,  his  body  was  tucked  into  a  fish's  belly,  with 
huge  green  scales  right  down  to  the  tail. 

Whilst  I  was  surveyin'  the  marman  fore  and  aft,  the  back  door 
opened  and  a  she  critter  flopped  in,  with  a  young  marman  at  the 
breast.  Thfe  leetle  sucker  was  not  bigger  than  a  pickerel,  with  a  tail 
of  a  delicate  sammon  colour,  and  a  head  and  body  jest  like  oneo*  them 
small  tan  monkeys,  with  a  face  as  large  as  a  dollar.  The  marman  in- 
troduced the  she  critter  as  his  wife,  and  we  soon  got  into  a  coil  of  talk 
right  slick,  all  abeout  the  weather,  and  the  keare  and  trouble  o*  a 
young  family  —  and  I  wished  I  may  be  swamped  if  the  marmaid 
warn't  a  dreadful  nice  critter  to  chatter.  Like  all  wimming  folk,  she 
was  plaguey  kewrous  as  to  whar*  I  was  raised  and  rigged — and  when 
I  said  I  guess  I  hailed  from  Cape  Cod,  and  all  along  shore  thar',  she 
looked  at  the  marman,  and  said  to  me, ''  Waell,  I  never — Cape  Cod  ! 
why,  strannger,  I  guess  there  must  be  some  finnity  in  our  breeds." 

Waell,  you  see,  I  grew  rayther  kewrous  tew,  and  wanted  to  log  the 
petiklers  o'  the  nateral  history  o'  the  race  o'  marmen — so  I  made  a  few 
enquerries  respectin'  their  ways  o'  life.  *'  I  guess,"  says  I^  'f  you  've 
a  tarnal  good  fish-market  in  these  here  parts,  and  keep  your  table  well 
supplied  with  hallibut  and  sea-bass,  and  black-fish,  eh?" 

"  Why,  strannger,"  says  the  marman,  rayther  wrathy,  "  seein'  it  *s 
you  I  won't  be  offended,  or,  by  hewing,  if  that  speech  ain't  enough 
to  make  a  marman  feel  scaly,  why  then  it  ain't  no  matter.  We  claim 
to  be  half  fish  in  our  natur',  and  I  reckon  you  don't  kalkilate  we  gob- 
bles our  relations  ?  there 's  sea  varmint  enough  in  all  conscience,  sitch 
as  oysters,  and  clams,  and  quahogs,  and  mussels,  and  crabs,  and  lob- 
sters. We  go  the  hull  shoat  with  them ;  and  then  we  cultivates  kail 
and  other  sea  truck  in  our  gardings,  and  sometimes  we  swims  under 


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AMONGST  THE   MERMAIDS.  309 

the  wild  fowl  as  they  're  floatin',  and  jerks  down  a  fine  duck  or  a  gull, 
or  gathers  their  eggs  off  the  rocks,  or  the  barnacles  off  drift  wood." 

Jest  then,  the  marman*s  eldest  son-fish  fotched  in  the  gimblet,  and 
brought  up  the  marman's  jawin'  tacks  with  a  round  turn.  The  young 
un  was  about  the  size  of  an  Injin  boy  jest  afore  he  runs  alone — half 
papoose,  half  porpus.  He  got  a  leetle  skeered  when  he  clapt  eyes  on 
me,  but  I  guv'  him  a  stale  quid  o'  backer  to  amuse  himself,  and  the 
sugar-plum  made  the  marmaster  roll  his  eyes  above  a  bit,  now  I  tell 
you. 

Waell,  I  bored  a  hole  in  the  brandy-tub^  and  pickin'  up  an  empty 
clam-shell,  handed  a  drink  to  the  lady^  and  told  her  to  tote  it  down. 
She  swallor'd  it  pretty  slick,  and  the  way  she  gulped  arterwards,  and 
stared,  and  twisted  her  fishy  mouth,  was  a  sin  to  Davy  Crockett.  The 
marknan  looked  raytber  woJfy  at  me,  as  if  I  'd  gin  her  pisin ;  so  I 
drawed  a  shell-full  and  swallered  it  myself.  This  kinder  cooled  him 
down,  and  when  the  marmaid  got  her  tongue-tackle  in  runnin*  order 
agin,  she  said  she  guessed  the  licker  was  the  juice  of  hewing,  and 
she'd  fee  darned  if  she  wouldn't  have  another  drink  right  off  the  reel. 

Seein'  this,  the  marman  swallered  his  dose,  and  no  sooner  got  it 
down  than  he  squealed  right  out,  and  clapped  his  webby  hands  toge- 
ther, and  wagged  his  tail  like  all  creation.  He  swore  it  was  elegant 
stuff,  and  he  felt  it  tickle  powerful  from  the  top  of  his  head  to  the 
eend  of  his  starn-fin.  Arter  takin'  two  or  three  horns  together,  the 
sonny  cried  for  a  drink,  and  I  gin  him  one  that  sent  him  wrigglin'  on 
the  sand  like  an  eel  in  uneasiness.  So,  the  marman  said  as  the  licker 
was  raal  first-rate,  and  first-rater  than  that  tew,  he  guessed  he  'd  ask 
io  his  next  door  neighbour  and  his  lady,  jest  to  taste  the  godsend. 
Waell,  in  a  minnit,  in  comes  a  huge  marman  of  the  most  almighty 
size,  looking  jest  like  Black  Hawk  when  he  was  bilious ;  he  fotched  up 
his  lady  with  him,  and  his  eldest  son,  a  scraggy  hobbadehoy  marman, 
and  his  darters,  two  young  marmaids  or  marmisses,  jest  goin'  out  o' 
their  teens. 

The  news  o'  the  brandy-tub  spred  pretty  slick,  for  in  half  an  hour, 
I  'd  the  hull  grist  o'  the  marmen  belongin'  to  that  settlement  cooped 
up  in  the  cavern. 

The  way  the  drunk  affected  the  different  critters  was  right  kewrous, 
DOW  I  tell  you.  One  great  scaly  feller  stiffened  his  tail  all  up,  and 
stood  poppindickler  erect  on  the  peaked  pints  of  the  eend  fin,  like  a 
jury-mast,  and  jawed  away  raal  dignified  at  all  the  rest,  wantin'  them 
to  appoint  him  a  sort  o'  admiral  over  the  hull  crew.  Another  yeller 
feller  with  a  green  tail,  was  so  dreadful  blue,  that  he  doubled  himself 
into  a  figgery  5,  and  sung  scraps  and  bits  o'  all  sorts  o'  sea  songs,  till 
he  got  tew  drunk  to  speak  at  all.  Some  o'  the  marmen  wanted  to 
kiss  all  the  marmaids,  and  tew  o'  the  ladies  begun  scratchin'  and 
fightin'  like  two  pusseys,  cos  one  trod  on  t'other's  tail.  Some  went 
floppin'  and  dancin'  on  the  sand  like  mad,  raisin'  sitch  a  dust  that  I 
could  not  see  to  draw  the  licker — but  the  party  round  the  tub  soon 
druv'  them  to  the  right  abeout,  as  interferin'  with  the  interest  o'  the 
settlement.  Every  minnit  some  fresh  marman  dropped  on  the  ground 
with  the  biggest  kind  of  load  on ;  I  never  seed  a  set  o'  critters  so  al- 
mighty tight,  yellin',  swearin',  huggin',  and  fightin',  till  they  growed 
so  darned  savagerous  that  I  kinder  feared  for  my  own  safety  amongst 
them  drunken  moflfradite  sea  aborigines.     So,  you  see,  I  up  and  told 


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SIO  THE  YANKEE  AMONGST  THE  MERMAIDS. 

them  that  I  'd  clapt  my  veto  on  the  licker,  and  that  they  should  not 
have  any  more. 

Waell,  if  ever  you  did  hear  a  most  etafnal  row,  or  see  a  hull  raft  o* 
drunken  fellers  cut  didoes,  then  uhu  the  time*  It  was  voted  that  I 
were  a  public  enemy,  and  every  half-drunken  marman  suddenly  be- 
came very  'fishus  to  have  me  Lynched,  and  it  were  settled  at  last  that 
I  were  to  be  rode  on  a  rail^  and  then  tarred  and  feathered.  But, 
while  some  o'  the  varmint  went  arter  the  rail  and  the  tar,  the  rest  o* 
the  critters  begun  auarrelin'  who  was  to  sarve  out  the  licker ;  and  as 
each  marman,  drunk  or  sober,  wanted  to  have  the  keare  o*  the  precious 
stuff,  they  soon  raised  a  pretty  muss,  and  kept  on  tearin'  at  each  other 
like  a  pack  o'  wolves.  Seein'  this,  I  jest  kinder  sneaked  quietly  away 
from  the  cave  grocery  till  I  com*  in  sight  o'  the  ship,  when  I  struck 
upperd  for  the  sarfis,  and  swum  for  dear  life.  I  soon  seed  that  the 
boats'  crews  were  musterin'  for  another  bout  o'  draggin'  for  the  brandy 
cask ;  so,  fearin'  least  the  capting  should  miss  me,  I  jest  laid  hold  o' 
the  edge  o'  the  gig,  and  crawled  in  pretty  quickly,  and  laid  .mjrself 
down  in  the  starn-sheets,  as  if  I  'd  never  been  out  o'  the  boat. 

I  hadn't  laid  thar'  half  a  second,  when  I  heerd  a  noise  jest  for  all 
the  world  as  if  somebody  was  squeezin'  a  small  thunder-cloud  right 
over  my  head*  I  ruz  up,  and  thar*  were  the  capting  and  the  hull 
crew  lookin'  over  the  ship's  side  at  me — the  officers  in  a  tamal  rage^ 
and  the  men  grinnin'  like  so  many  hyenas* 

**  Rouse  up,  you  long-sided  lazy  swab,  and  bring  the  boats  in  from 
the  boom*    Are  you  goin*  to  sleep  all  day  ?  " 

''Ay,  ay,  sir,"  said  I,  jumpin'  up  in  the  boat,  when  all  the  water  run 
off  me  like  forty  thousand  mill  streams — I  'd  been  so  outrageous 
soaked  while  down  with  the  marmen*  I  felt  kinder  skeered  lest  the 
capting  should  see  it,  but  when  I  stood  up  he  laughed  right  out,  and 
so  did  the  hull  crew  tew. 

''  Why,  he 's  not  awake  yet,"  said  the  capting.  ''  Bosen,  give  him 
another  bucket." 

You  see  they  wanted  to  persuade  me  that  I  'd  fell  asleep  in  the  gig, 
as  fast  as  a  meetin'-house>  and  slept  thar'  the  hull  while  the  crew  were 
at  dinner,  and  that  no  shoutin'  nor  nothin'  couldn't  waken  me  up — so 
the  bosen  run  along  the  boom  and  jest  give  me  a  couple  o'  buckets  o' 
sea-water  right  over  me*  When  I  told  'em  my  yam  abeout  the 
marman  poppin'  up  his  head,  and  invitin'  me  down,  and  all  abeout 
findin'  the  brandy-tub  and  the  rest,  they  swore  that  I  'd  got  drunk 
on  the  parson's  licker,  and  dreamt  it  all  in  the  boat*  But  I  guess  I 
know  what  I  did  see,  jest  abeout  as  slick  as  anybody ;  and  the  chap- 
lain b'lieved  the  hull  story ;  and  said  that  as  I  'd  learnt  the  marmen 
the  valley  o'  licker,  the^  'd  get  huntin'  up  all  the  tubs  and  barrels  out 
of  the  different  wrecks  m  all  the  various  seas ;  and  that  intemperance 
would  spile  the  race,  and  thin  'em  off  till  they  became  one  o'  the 
things  that  was — jest  like  the  Injins  what's  wastin'  away  by  the  power 
o'  rum  and  whiskey  given  'em  by  the  white  man. 

I  recking  the  parson  wam't  far  out  in  his  kalkilashmg.  The  love  o' 
licker  has  had  its  effect  upon  the  marmen  and  the  marmaids ;  they 
must  have  thinned  off  surprisin'ly,  for  I  ain't  seed  none  since,  nor  I 
don't  know  nobody  that  has,  nyther* 


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311 


ST.  GEOROE  AND  THE  DRAGON. 


THB   TBUB   TALB^   DIVB8TBD  OF   ITS   TBAOITIONAL   FIBS; 

(A  good  way)  from  the  German, 

WBITTBN    AND    ILLU8TBATBD    BT    PBBOY    GBUIK8HANK. 

A  LONG  time  ago,  I  cannot  say  when. 

But  somewhere,  I  think,  near  the  centary  ten. 

When  Britons  oould  sing  "  Britons  ne'er  would  be  slaves," 

And  Britannia  was  really  just  ruling  the  waves, 

A  pest  was  discovered, — a  horrible  thief, — 

A  great  deal  more  biting  than  parish  relief ; 

Fathers  and  mothers. 

Sisters  and  brothers. 
Very  small  babies,  and  ladies'  pet  pages. 
Poor  commoners  all,  no  matter  their  ages, 

Umbrellas  and  boots. 

Long  Chancery  suits. 

Were  treated  as  smoke ; 

In  fact,  to  be  plain. 

An  up  or  down  train, 

Luggage,  people,  and  coke. 
He  'd  have  swallowed,  and  laughed  at  the  thing  as  a  joke. 


Well  then,  to  begin :— There  stood. 
Close  by  a  dark  and  lonesome  wood. 
The  house,  or  rather.  Devil's  lair. 
No  morning  calls  were  made  out  there. 


*  The  above  engraving  is  an  accurate  copy  of  the  coin  ttmck  on  the  acoesiion 
of  Geoiige  (who  at  his  death  was  honoured  with  the  dignity  of  saint),  and  supposed 
to  be  the  only  one  extant,  now  in  the  possession  of  that  celebrated  antiquary  Dr. 
Mummydust. 


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812         8T.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON. 

For  they  had  got  a  wholesome  dread. 
That  tliy  perforce  might  leave  a  head. 

It  was  not  huilt  of  ragged  stones 
Nor  pUster,  hut  of  En^idi  bones. 
Cemented  fast  with  blood. 
Instead  of  tiles,  the  roof  was  spread 
With  hafts  of  victims  long  since  dead  ; 
The  scraper,  too,  was  nicely  made 
From  some  young  gent's  white  shoulder  blade. 

And  very  well  it  stood : 
The  knocker  large  was  strange  to  view,— 
Not  Brummagem,— a  thing  quite  new. 
A  skeleton  fist  was  suspended  before. 
And  a  skull,  very  snubbed,  was  fixed  on  the  door  - 
If  any  one  callea,  it  was  meant  that  the  blows. 
By  lifting  the  fist,  should  fall  whack  on  the  nose  ; 
But  no  one  disturbed  the  dread  Dragon's  repose 
He  gorged  on  all  things 
Which  a  pampered  taste  brings , 
So  his  brain  became  bothered  with  so  many  dishes 
One  after  another,  none  answered  his  wishes. 
He  became  discontented, 
WTiat  could  be  invented? 
At  last  he  resolved  on  an  uncommon  thing. 
He  couldn't  do  better,  he  'd  just  try  a  king  ! 
So  resolved  became  he 
That  his  next  dish  should  be 

Rex  Britanntae ! 
He  'd  be  better  for  sage ! 
When  he  thought  of  his  age, 
Threescore !  old  enough, 
He  feared  he  'd  be  tough, 
That  was  like  enough. 
He  turned  to  the  aueen, — 
She  once  had  been 
Sweet  seventeen, — 
Now  fifty, — (good  looking) 
But  not  good  for  much  (as  far  as  his  taste  went)  for  cooking  ! 

At  last  he  swore. 
With  a  hideous  roar ! 
Which  was  heard  at  Dieppe,  on  the  oppodte  shore. 

That  by  every  drop  of  blood  he  had  shed. 

Unless  something  nicer  came  into  his  head, 
He  *d  noaUau)  the  globe  ! — (not  at  all  a  bad  notion) 
For  revenge, — then  he  'd  wash  it  well  down  with  the  ocean. 

But  when  he  came  to  cool  reflection. 

He  saw  a  very  great  objection  ; 

He  thought  pernaps  this  draught  and  pill 

Might  tend  somehow  to  make  him  ill. 

At  last  his  eye,  with  gourmand  leer, 

Shewed  that  he  'd  got  a  bright  idea, 

So  he  took  out  a  sheet  of  post. 

To  write  about  a  younger  roast. 
Ah  !  well  may  we  our  own  tiroes  bless. 
That  they  are  better  ! 
For,  in  his  letter. 

He  wrote  to  order  a  princess ! ! 

When  he  'd  finished  ttiis  sad  job. 

He  drew  his  watch  from  out  his  fob. 


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ST.    GEORGE   AND  THE   DRAGON.  SI  3 

Sealed  it  with  a  grim  death's  head. 
Then  took  his  dip,  and  went  to  bed. 

It  was  just  at  that  time  of  the  year 

When  Sol  sleeps  rather  longer, 
And  Wallsend  coals  grow  ratner  dear, 
And  Jack  Frost  waxes  stronger  ; 
A  letter  was  seen 
To  be  thrust  between 
The  bars  of  a  gate. 
Which  shut  out  the  vulgar  m>m  royalty*s  state. 
And  the  bearer  observed  he  'd  no  orders  to  wait. 
The  chief  stick  in  waiting,  who  saw  the  note  fall, 
Who  liked  not  the  bearer's  bold  bearing  at  all, 
Picked  it  up,  like  a  man  who  explosion  expects. 
And  there,  on  the  envelope,  saw  written,  Rex  ! 
He  ran  without  state 
To  the  king  in  debate. 
Who  'd  been  sitting  up  late 
To  decide  some  one's  fate. 
The  king,  who  was  bold  as  a  king  ought  to  be. 
Without  hesitation  or  timidity. 
Cried,  "  Zounds !  who  the  devil  can  this  fellow  be  ?  " 
But  in  that  letter  which  was  sent, 
There  was  a  most  unpleasant  scent. 
It  smelt  like  stuff  in  which  they  dip 
Matches,  only  at  the  tip. 
The  king  cried  ''  Brimstone ! "  he  was  right. 
His  royid  hairs  stood  bolt  upright : 
Oh  !  oh  !  oh  ! 
Here 's  a  go ! 
He  has  sent  for  the  princess  \y  way  of  a  treat, 
Am  I  the  brute's  butcher j  to  nnd  him  in  meat  ? 
He — no  one  asked  who— 
They  very  well  knew. 
And  that  made  them  ail  look  uncommonly  blue. 
A  terrible  frown 
Raised  Rex's  crown, 
He  was  drcumslogdollogised  past  all  relief; 
He  wished  that  his  subjects  had  chopped  off  his  head. 
In  fact,  he  repeatedly  wished  himseit  dead. 
Or  that,  when  a  baby,  he  'd  never  been  fed. 
He  stormed  and  he  capered  beyond  all  belief. 
And  said,  "  I  '11  bestow 
On  him  who  will  go 
And  baste  this  bold  monster  until  he  is  brown. 
My  daughter  as  wife. 
If  he  '11  save  her  life. 
And  after  I  'm  dead  he  shall  have  half-a-crown.*' 
Though  clever  at  bruising, 
They  all  fell  a  musing. 
Didn't  like  to  accept,  and  afraid  of  refusing. 
The  kinff  was  annoyed,  so  his  temper  broke  loose. 
And  with  it  came  out  most  unkingly  abuse. 

It  was  all  of  no  use, 
Not  one  of  the  lot  had  the  pluck  of  a  goose. 
As  his  ire  abated, 
A  gentleman  stated, 
At  the  sign  of  the  Crown, 
A  little  way  down. 
Lived  a  wittier, 
A  good  one  to  fight,  and  an  out  and  out  skittler, 


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SI 4  ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON. 

So  if  they  'd  but  mention 
The  royal  intention. 
He  'd  wager  a  crown 
That  the  dragon  was  down. 
The  king  bit  his  thumb,  and  then  called  for  a  light. 
Saying, «« Saj  what  I  Ve  said,"  and  turned  in  for  the  night. 
But  gueas,  if  you  can,  the  sad,  awful  distress. 
The  tale  of  the  Dragon  had  caused  the  princess. 
When  she  thought  of  his  jaws,  which  often  had  been 
Described  to  her,  just  like  a  sausage  machine ; 

How  he  'd  mumble  and  munch 

That  sweet  form  for  his  lunch. 
Oh,  horrible  thought !  if  the  monster  should  win, 
What  a  stew,  or  a  pickle,  she  soon  would  be  in. 
But  (George  was  renowned,  and  his  very  least  thump 
Would  floor  a  mad  bullock  as  flat  as  a  dump  ; 
Besides,  at  Stone-henge,  he  had  lifted  with  ease. 
Those  ponderous  rocks,  as  though  they'd  been  fleas  ; 
'Tisn't  generally  known 
That  thu  sin^lar  stone 

Was  none  of  the  Druids*,  but  solely  his  own. 
George  lowered  his  pipe  when  he  heard  of  the  job. 
Looked  serious  rather,  and  then  scratched  his  nob. 
Then  he  pulled  at  the  measure  that  warmed  on  the  hob, 

Called  the  Dragon  a  rough  un. 

Said  the  job  was  a  touffh  un, 

But  thought  he  'd  mudi  better, 

In  form,  write  a  letter. 
And  state  to  the  Dragon  on  what  day  he  'd  meet  him. 
And  put  aside  bragging,  just  promise  to  eat  him ; 

And  further  to  sav, 

That  on  next  boxing-day, 
In  the  morning  at  eight,  what  he  owed  him  he  M  pay. 
♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦ 

'Twas  a  wintry  night. 
Quite  frosty,  not  bright^ 
For  the  sun  had  long  cribbed  every  atom  of  light ; 
The  wind  whistled  dirill,  and  it  rattled  the  trees. 
Like  a  murderer's  bones,  as  they  swing  in  the  breeze. 
And  the  chains  make  a  noise  like  a  big  bunch  of  keys. 
A  good  rousinff  fire  was  blazing  away 
In  the  Dragoirs  front  parlour,  'twas  light  as  the  day ; 
Some  juvemle  bones  remained  on  the  tray, 
With  a  bottle  and  glass,  some  tobacco  anid  day ; 

He  had  finish^  his  booze. 

And  was  taking  his  snooze, 

When  a  knock  at  the  door 

Put  an  end  to  his  snore. 
A  knock  at  the  door  I  'twas  a  singrular  fact. 
The  person  who  gave  it  was  oertiunly  cracked. 
For  he  very  well  knew  no  sensible  brain 
Would  think  about  venturing  near  his  domain. 

The  knock  was  so  bang, 

For  his  tiger  he  rang. 

And  told  him  to  go 

And  answer  below. 
He  was  n't  a  tiger  with  buttons  and  hat. 
But  stripes  on  his  coat,  and  a  skin  like  a  cat, 
A  very  long  tail,  and  he  walked  pit-a-pat. 
He  opened  the  door,  and  looked  cautiously  round, 
Looked  up  to  the  sky,  then  looked  down  to  the  ground. 


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ST.  GEORGE  AND  THE  DRAGON.  S15 

But  look  as  he  would,  there  was  nobody  found, 
Aud  he  swore  'twas  a  runaway  knock,  he  *d  be  bound  ; 
When,  on  savagely  turning,  a  thing  met  his  sight, 
'Twixt  knocker  and  door,  like  a  kerchief  of  white  ; 
The  sight  was  uncommon,  and  made  him  suppose 
The  skull  had  a  cold,  and  was  blowing  his  nose. 
But,  on  closer  insnection,  he  saw  that  it  meant 
A  letter  was  left,  like  a  circular  sent. 
When,  through  alterations,  a  draper  is  bent 
On  selling  his  goods,  minus  so  much  per  cent. 
Imagine  a  cook,  when  her  dinner 's  done  brown. 
And  on  it  a  bushel  of  soot  tumbles  dowi^ ! 
A  cabman  who 's  taken  a  pewter  half-crown  ! 
A  handsome  pet  parson  stripp'd  of  his  gown  ! 
Imagine, — but  words  have  never  been  spelt. 
To  give  an  idea  of  the  rage  Dragon  felt, — 

He  cried  with  a  sneer. 

What !  feel  any  fear 

Of  a  vendor  of  beer  ! 
He  is  sick  of  his  life,  so  that 's  perfectly  dear. 

The  day  it  arrived,  and  the  sun  he  got  up. 

And  took  of  the  morning  dew  just  a  small  sup ; 

He  heard  of  the  fight,  so  he  hurried  his  race. 

And  looked,  with  exertion,  quite  red  in  the  face ; 

'Twas  earlv,  but  still  there  a  figure  was  seen 

Directing  its  course  towards  Salisbury  Green. 

And  very  ill  tempered,  to  judffe  by  its  mien. 

For  it  kicked  every  stone  with  a  aevilish  spleen. 

The  Dragon  was  coming  !  to  settle  the  doubt 

Of  which  of  the  two  was  the  best  at  a  bout. 

Now  I  beg  to  observe,  that  this  battle  of  mine 

Will  in  no  way  resemble  the  penny  desiffn, 

Where  the  Dnigon  is  dying,  with  blood  like  port  wine ; 

Or  Uie  five  shilling  piece,  where  the  saint,  on  a  steed. 

Is  poking  the  monster,  and  making  it  bleed. 

But  the  true  English  art,  with  plenty  of  knocks. 

In  the  style,  a-la-Cribb,  in  the  technical  box. 

The  thinff  they  describe  so  well  in  ^'  Bell's  Life," 

When  a  battle  comes  off,  and  they  publish  the  strife 

In  a  very  long  column,  condemning  the  knife. 

Greoige  was  there,  and,  in  round  one, 

He  'd  his  back  turned  to  the  sun, 

His  first  blow  echoed  like  a  gun  ; 
The  Dragon  then  parried,  and  gave  G.  a  noser, 
A  throw  !  and  the  fiend,  he  went  down  in  a  closer. 
Round  the  second  began,  but  with  more  cautious  play. 
Each  trying  to  find  out  the  other's  pet  way ; 

One  or  two  smart  blows 

Just  over  the  nose. 
Then  the  Dragon  got  one  of  G  's  cleverest  throws. 
Round  after  round  continued  to  paas, 
One  or  the  other  was  down  on  the  grass. 
But  round  nine  hundred  and  seventy-one. 
Shewed  that  the  monster  was  getting  quite  done ; 
George  struck  his  eyes,  like  alucifer  match. 
And  he  fell  o'er  his  tail  as  he  came  to  the  scratch. 

The  Dragon  turned  pale 

When  he  trod  on  his  tail ; 
George  took  the  cue,  for  the  moment  just  suits. 
And  tore  it,  most  ruthlessly,  out  by  the  roots. 
VOL.  XXIII.  z 


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316 


ST.   GEORGE   AND   THE   DRAGON. 


'Twas  finished !  'twas  done !  he  gave  one  more  whack. 
And  the  monster  rolled  over,  stone  dead,  on  his  hack. 

He  took  the  Dragon,  tail  and  all. 

And  at  the  palace  quick  did  call ; 

He  laid  him  down  hefore  the  king, 

Who  ne'er  for^^ot  one  promised  thing; 

He  gave,  as  wife,  his  lovely  daughter, 

Wiui  all  the  wealth  her  mother  brought  her. 

Which  there  and  then  was  paid  him  down. 

With  promise  soon  of  half-a-crown : 

The  good  old  king  soon  died,  alas  ! 

And  all  Greorge  hoped  for  came  to  pass. 


To  boys,  big  and  little,  this  caution  Hwill  give. 
Keep  yourselves  honest  as  long  as  you  live; 
If  ever,  by  chance,  you  happen  to  see 
Apples  which  grow  on  anotner  man's  tree. 

Pray  let  them  alone, 

Dont  try  with  a  stone 
To  knock  any  down — they  are  not  your  own, 
But  think  at  your  back  there  *8  a  precious  thick  stick. 
And  ask  if  the  fruit 's  worth  the  chance  of  a  Uck. 

My  grandmotlier  winked,  as  she  read  this  to  me. 
And  said  she  believed  it  an  Alle — go— ry. 


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317 
ALIWAL  AND  SIR  HARRY  SMITH. 

WITH   A  POBTRAIT. 

If  anybody  shoald  wish  to  detract  from  the  fame  of  Sir  Harry 
Smith  as  a  skilful  general,  by  urgins^  that  he  has  seen  service,  and 
had  hard  fighting  enough  to  make  him  one,  while  we  doubted  the 
correctness  of  such  objector's  conclusion,  we  should  be  unable  to 
deny  the  facts  upon  which  he  arrived  at  it. 

Sir  Harry  Smith  was  at  the  capture  of  Monte  Video ;  at  the  at- 
tack upon  Buenos  Ayres ;  he  served  during  the  first  campaign  of  the 
Peninsular  war,  from  the  battle  of  Vimiera  to  that  of  Corunna ;  he 
was  at  the  battles  of  Sabajal  and  Fuente  d'Onor ;  at  the  sieges  of 
Ciudad  Rodrigo  and  Badajos ;  at  the  battles  of  Salamanca,  Vittoria, 
Orthes,  the  Pyrenees,  and  Toulouse.  He  was  at  Washington  and 
New  Orleans,  and  he  was  at  Waterloo. 

In  all  these  actions  Sir  Harry  Smith  approved  himself  a  gallant 
o£Bcer.  But  it  is  not  as  a  brave  soldier,  but  as  a  distinguished  com- 
mander, we  would  at  present  view  him ;  and,  accordingly,  by  way 
of  refreshing  the  reader's  memory,  we  give  as  an  accompaniment  to 
a  portrait  of  *'  the  hero  of  Ali  wal,"  a  brief  sketch  of  those  operations 
in  India  of  which  he  had  l^e  conduct,  that  have  conferred  enduring 
lustre  upon  his  name. 

It  wiO  be  remembered  that  when  the  British  army  first  advanced 
to  meet  the  invasion  of  the  Sikhs,  it  was  deemed  necessary  to  with- 
draw a  great  part  of  the  forces  which  were  assembled  with  the  view 
of  protecting  Loodiana,  for  the  purpose  of  effecting  a  combination 
witn  that  portion  of  the  army  which  was  advancing  from  Umballah, 
and  thereby  to  be  in  a  position  to  meet  the  Sikhs  at  Ferozepore  with 
a  larger  and  more  concentrated  force.  The  effect  of  this  step  was, 
unquestionably,  to  leave  Loodiana  open  to  an  attack  by  any  force 
the  Sikhs  might  bring  to  bear  in  that  quarter ;  but  the  chief  object 
being  to  attack  their  main  army  at  Ferozepore,  points  of  secondary 
importance  were  for  the  moment  neglectea.  The  great  present  ob- 
ject was  to  concentrate  a  powerful  army  at  all  events,  and  with  these 
combiued  forces  to  strike  a  decisive  blow. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  the  enemy  been  driven  across  the  Sutlej, 
after  the  battles  of  the  21st  and  22nd  December  1845,  and  our  army 
placed  in  a  position  unassailable  by  the  enemy  on  the  opposite  side, 
than  it  was  thought  advisable  to  strengthen  our  force  at  Loodiana, 
not  onlv  to  provide  against  any  contingencies,  but  to  displace  any 
force  of  the  enemy  that  might  then  be,  or  that  might  make  its  appear- 
ance, in  that  direction.  It  was  not  expected,  indeed,  that  anv  force 
the  enemy  could  collect  at  Loodiana  would  amount  to  such  a  K>rce  as 
he  had  on  the  lower  part  of  the  Sutlej,  vet,  nevertheless,  the  position 
he  might  occupy  on  that  point  would  be  such  as  to  cause  extreme 
inconvenience  by  cutting  off*  our  communications,  by  intercepting 
detached  reinforcements,  but  chiefly  by  compelling  to  diverge,  if  not 
capturing,  the  heavy  battering-train,  the  arrival  of  whicn  at  the 
camp  of  the  commander-in-chief  was  absolutely  indispensable  to  the 
carrying  on  of  his  projected  operations. 

Accordingly,  it  was  decided  to  detach  a  force  to  Loodiana  for  the 


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818  ALIWAL   AND  SIR  HARRY   SMITH. 

purpose  of  accomplishing  diat  object^  and  Sir  Harry  Smith  was  se- 
lected to  commana  that  force.  On  the  7th  of  January  several  corps 
had  moved  in  the  direction  of  Ferozepore  and  other  points ;  and  by 
the  15th  a  large  force  was  assembled  there,  and  was  quite  prepared 
against  any  sudden  attack  of  die  ■  enemy.  But  at  this  time  an  inti- 
mation was  received  at  head-quarters  to  the  effect  that  the  enemy 
had  collected  a  verv  large  force  at  Phulkr,  opposite  Loodiana,  a 
force  stronger  than  had  l^n  supposed,  that  it  was  moving  across  the 
river,  and  diat  it  was  conjectured  he  would  entrench  himself  in  a 
position  between  the  main  body  of  our  army  and  the  reinforcements 
in  the  fort.  These  new  circumstances  necessitated  further  measures 
to  increase  our  forces,  and,  accordinriy,  the  63rd  regiment  of  infantry, 
which  was  moving  up,  was  ordered  to  join  Sir  Harry  Smith's  divi- 
sion, which  was  subsequently  increased  by  a  body  of  cavalry.  Thift 
force  was  directed  to  attack  a  foi^  called  Dhurrumkote,  which  inter- 
rupted the  communication  between  our  position  on  the  Sutlej  and 
Loodiana.  Sir  Harry  Smith  proceeding  to  execute  this  movement, 
the  enemy  abandoned  the  fort  immediately,  tiiat  is  to  say,  after  the 
exchange  of  a  few  shots,  and  some  guns  and  a  quantity  of  grain  fell 
into  our  hisnds. 

And  nolv  the  general  advanced  in  the  direction  of  Loodiadi.  He 
was  to  be  joined  on  his  way  by  the  53rd  regiment  and  a  corps  of  na- 
tive troops,  which  was  arriving  from  uiother  point  and  expected  to 
be  in  that  vicinity  by  the  22nd  of  January.  It  was  further  decided 
to  despatch  to  the  general  another  division,  viz.  the  brigade  under 
Briga^er  Wheeler.  Proceeding  in  his  march,  the  5drd  regiment 
was  found  at  the  appointed  place,  and  this  native  troops  were  also 
advancing  aocdrding  to  the  calculations  which  had  been  made ;  and 
on  the  21st  he  continued  his  march  from  Jugraon  to  Loodiana. 

Meanwhile,  the  enemy  was  making  a  forced  movement  towards 
Loodiana,  and  it  was  likewise  ascertained  that  he  had  taken 
up  a  position  at  the  village  of  Buddowal,  which  was  situated  on 
the  direct  road  to  Loodiana.  That  road  passes  through  several 
villages,  all  defensible ;  and,  occupying  that  position,  the  enemy  had 

E laced  himself  exactly  on  the  line  of  march  between  Jugraon  and 
lOodiana.  When  he  arrived  at  a  certain  distance  from  the  latter 
place,  he  found  them  in  position,  moving  in  a  line  parallel  to  that 
he  had  taken. 

It  was  now  that  Sir  Harry  Smith  sustained  that  check  which  some 
through  ignorance,  and  others  from  envy  or  malice,  endeavoured  at 
the  time  to  magnify  into  a  serious  reverse.  Let  us  have  the  general's 
own  version  of  the  affair.  Writing  to  Sir  Hugh  Gough  just  after 
he  had  succeeded  in  relieving  Loodiana,  he  said  that  he  had  accom- 
plished that  object,  but  under  circumstances  not  quite  so  fortunate 
as  he  had  desired  (the  loss  of  his  baggage,  which  was  carried  away 
by  the  enemy) ;  and  adds :  '^  When  within  a  mile  and  a  half  to  my 
left  of  Buddowal,  moving  parallel  with  my  column  (which  was  right 
in  front  ready  to  wheel  into  line),  and  evidently  for  the  purpose 
of  interrupting  my  advance,  I  saw  the  enemy.  Nothing  could  be 
stronger  for  the  enemy  than  the  continued  line  of  villages  which 
were  m  his  front. 

''  He  was  moving  by  roads,  while  I  was  moving  over  very  heavy 
sand-beds.  He  was  in  advance  far  beyond,  on  my  right  flank ;  so 
far  did  he  extend,  and  so  numerous  did  he  shew  his  infantry  and 


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^KiR  ibi.aj?.^---^^ 


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AUWAL   AND  SIR   HARRY   SMITH.  819 

f^nft.  Mid  so  well  ckosen  $ar  him  was  the  line  of  villages^  that  with 
all  my  force  he  was  not  to  be  assailed:  and  he  <^iened  a  furious  can*, 
nonade  of  from  thirty-five  to  forty  guns  of  very  lai^e  calibre,  and« 
AS  Msual,  right  well  served.  My  object  being  to  unite  myself  widi 
the  force  from  Loodiana,  whidi  every  moment  I  expected  to  appear 
in  sighty  for  it  was  nine  o'clock^  I  moved  parallel  with  the  enemy, 
wishing  to  attack  the  moment  the  JLoodiana  ^oops  reached  me.  He, 
however,  so  pressed  upon  me,  that  I  opened  in  one  body  my  eleven 
guns  upon  him  with  considerable  effect,  and  moved  up  the  3Ist,  and 
was  preparing  to  form  line  upon  this  regiment,  when  the  enemy  most 
rapidly  formed  a  line  of  seven  regiments,  with  their  guns,  between, 
at  right  angles  with  the  Hne  I  was  about  to  attack,  wUle  a  consider- 
able force  was  moving  round  my  right  and  frcmt.  Thus  enveloped, 
•Bad  overbalanced  by  numbers,  and  such  a  superiority  of  funs,  I  had 
•nothing  for  it  but  to  throw  back  my  line  on  its  right,  which  repre- 
sented a  small  line  on  the  h3rpothenuse  of  a  triangle. 

"  The  enemy  thus  outflandied  me  and  my  whole  force.  I  therefore 
gradually  withdrew  my  infontry  in  ^ohellon  of  battalions,  the  cavalry 
in  eohellon  of  squadrons,  in  the  direction  of  Loo^ana,  momentarily 
expecting  to  see  the  approach  of  that  force, — vis.  one  regiment  of 
cavalry,  five  guns,  and  four  regiments  of  infantry,  when  I  would 
have  made  a  vig<HPou8  attack.  The  ground  was  very  deep  and  sandy, 
and  therefore  very  difBcult  to  move  on.  The  enemy  continued  to 
move  on  as  described  for  upwards  of  an  hour,  and  until  I  knew  that 
the  Loodiana  force  was  moving,  not  a  musket  was  fired.  Nothing 
could  exceed  the  steadiness  of  the  troops.  The  line  was  thrown 
back,  under  this  cannonade,  as  if  on  parade.  Native  as  well  as 
British ;  and  the  movements  of  the  cavalry  under  Brigadier  Cureton 
were,  without  any  exception,  the  most  perfect  thing  I  ever  saw,  and 
which  I  cannot  describe." 

The  truth  is.  Sir  Harry  Smith  knew  that  he  must  maintain  the 
cooununication  with  Loodiana  at  all  events ;  he  resolutely  adhered 
to  the  object  he  had  in  view,  and  although  the  enemy  was  much 
more  numerous  than  our  troops,  and  strong  enough,  had  they  con- 
centrated their  whole  strength,  to  have  enveloped  them,  he  was  not 
dismayed.  With  obstinate  persistance  he  pursued  his  point,  which 
he  accomplished  with  comparatively  trifling  loss,  concentrating  his 
force  at  Loodiana. 

The  general  had  now  placed  himself  in  a  position  almost  in  the 
rear  of  that  of  the  enemy  at  Buddowal;  and,  therefore,  although  he 
had  avoided  an  action,  and  sustained  comparatively  no  loss,  he  had 
so  placed  himself  with  regard  to  the  enemy's  force,  that  it  was  almost 
impossible  they  could  maintain  themselves  without  fighting  him 
in  the  position  of  Buddowal.  Meanwhile,  Brigadier  Wheeler  had 
advanced  to  join  him,  and  having  been  informed  that  on  the  21st  an 
action  had  been  fought  in  which  the  British  troops  had  been  entirely 
successful,  and  that  the  enemy  had  been  driven  back,  he  proceeded 
on  the  direct  road  from  Dhurrumkote  to  Loodiana.  Having  advanced 
some  distance,  he  received  intelligence  of  a  directly  opposite  ten- 
dency, that  is  to  say,  tidings  of  an  action  and  a  defeat ;  upon  which, 
deeming  it  impossible  to  push  on  in  that  direction,  inasmuch  as 
by  so  doing,  he  might  fall  into  the  midst  of  the  enemy's  army,  he 
took  a  more  circuitous  route.  But  this  movement,  arising  from 
erroneous  information,  brought  the  heads  of  his  column  so  far  to  the 


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320  ALIWAL   AND    SIR   HARRY   SMITH. 

position  of  the  right  of  the  enemy,  that,  finding  themselves  with  Sir 
Harry  Smith's  corps  on  their  left  and  that  of  Brigadier  Wheeler  on 
their  right,  they  deemed  their  position  untenable,  and  decamped  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  The  position  occupied  by  Sir  Harr^  Smith 
made  it  impossible  for  the  enemy  to  retire  at  the  point  at  which  they 
had  crossea  the  river,  and  they  were  accordingly  compelled  to  make 
a  longer  march  to  cross  at  a  lower  point. 

Sir  Harry  Smith,  having  been  joined  by  Brigadier  Wheeler,  now 
proceeded  to  attack  them.  He  had  a  strong  force,  although  consid- 
erably inferior  to  that  of  the  enemy,  which  had  been  reinforced  from 
time  to  time,  and  at  the  very  last  by  the  Avitabile  regiment,  which 
was  considered  the  flower  of  the  enemy's  infantry. 

The  orders  of  the  general  were  to  drive  the  Sihks  across  the 
Sutlej ;  and  he  made  his  arrangements  accordingly — such  arrange- 
ments as  have  drawn  from  the  highest  military  authorities  the 
warmest  encomiums,  and  such  as  showed  him  to  be  a  consummate 
master  in  the  art  of  war.  He  arranged  the  order  of  his  march  so 
skilfully  that  he  provided  against  every  possible  attack  that  could  be 
made  upon  him,  whilst  the  disposition  of  his  own  forces  was  such  as 
to  give  him  every  facility  for  acting  on  the  offensive. 

He  moved  on  to  the  attack  under  a  heavy  fire,  then  halted  for  a 
few  moments,  to  see  whether  he  could  not  discover  the  key  to  the 
enemy's  position,  and  he  found  it  in  the  village  of  Aliwal.  Under  the 
fire  of  the  enemy,  he  instantly  made  such  a  disposition  of  his  troops 
as  enabled  him  to  force  the  position,  and  by  succeeding  in  doing  so 
on  the  left,  he  enveloped  the  wing,  and  drove  it  back  in  confusion  on 
their  right,  one  of  the  most  complete  operations  of  the  kind  that  was 
ever  attempted  under  the  fire  of  the  enemy.  The  success  was  com- 
plete. He  had  a  gallant  enemy  to  deal  with,  who  had  not  unskil- 
fully made  his  own  arrangements ;  but  nothing  could  finally  with- 
stand the  irresistible  attack  made  by  our  soldiers.  The  battle  was 
won,  our  troops  advancing  with  the  most  perfect  order  to  the  com- 
mon focus,  the  passage  of  the  river.  The  enemy  completely  hemmed 
in,  fled  from  the  hostile  fire,  and  precipitated  themselves  in  disor- 
dered masses,  in  the  utmost  confusion  and  consternation.  Every 
gun  the  enemy  had  fell  into  our  hands. 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  has  said  of  this  piece  of  dazzling  military 
skill : — 

**  My  lords,  I  will  say  with  regard  to  the  movements  of  Sir  Harry 
Smith,  that  I  have  read  the  account  of  many  battles,  but  I  never  read 
an  account  of  an  affair  in  which  more  ability,  energy,  and  discretion 
were  manifested,  than  in  this  case — of  one  in  which  any  officer  has 
ever  shewn  himself  more  capable  than  this  officer  did,  of  commanding 
troops  in  the  field*  Every  description  of  troops  was  brought  to  bear 
with  all  arms  in  the  position  in  which  they  were  most  capable  of 
rendering  service;  everything  was  carried  on  most  perfectly,  the 
nicest  manoeuvres  being  performed  under  the  enemy's  fire  with  the 
utmost  precision ;  nor,  my  lords,  have  I  read  of  any  battle,  in  any 
part  of  the  world,  in  which,  at  the  same  time>  energy  and  gallantry 
on  the  part  of  the  troops  were  displayed  to  a  degree  that  surpassed 
that  exhibited  in  this  engagement." 

Afler  Sir  Harry  Smith  had  achieved  this  brilliant  success,  afler 
he  had  driven  back  the  enemy  across  the  Sutlej,  he  instantly  returned 


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TH£   MINSTTBEL's  CURSE.  321 

to  join  his  cominaDding  officer,  Sir  Hugh  Gough.  He  arrived  at 
head-quarters  on  the  8th  of  February,  three  days  before  the  decisive 
victory  gained  by  the  forces  under  Sir  Hu^h  Gough  and  Sir  Henry 
Hardinge.  He  took,  therefore,  a  distinguished  part  in  the  battle  of 
Sobraon. 

We  all  know  the  reception  the  hero  met  in  England ;  the  noble 
modesty  with  which  he  accepted  the  praises  everywhere  heaped 
upon  him,  and  the  generous  warmth  and  earnest  sincerity  with  which 
he  seized  every  occasion  of  bearing  testimony  to  the  valour  of  the 
troops  who  share  with  him  the  glories  of  Aliwal. 


THE  MINSTREL'S  CURSE. 

(from  uhlakd.) 

There  stood  in  ancient  times  a  castle  proud  and  high. 
It  lorded  o'er  the  land,  it  tower'd  towards  the  sky  ; 
And  at  its  base  a  blooming  wreath  of  lovely  gardens  lav, 
Where  sparkled  many  a  fountain  beneath  the  summerfi  ray. 

There  dwelt  a  haughty  king,  rich  in  treasure  and  renown  ; 
Upon  his  throne  he  sat  with  pale  cheek  and  gloomy  frown ; 
For  his  thoughts  are  thoughts  of  blood,  and  baleful  is  his  breath, 
And  his  words  are  words  <n  menace,  and  his  writings  dooms  of  death. 

Two  noble  minstrel-guests  once  trod  the  castle- way, 

A  youth  with  flowing  locks  of  gold,  and  an  old  man  hoary  grey, 

The  old  man  with  hu  harp  on  a  gallant  steed  did  ride, 

With  carols  blithe  and  spirits  light,  the  youth  he  walk*d  beside. 

Thus  spake  the  aged  minstrel :  '*  Prepare  thyself,  my  son  I 
This  day  the  monardli's  stony  heart  by  music  must  be  won ; 
Think  on  thy  lays  of  deepest  power,  thy  saddest,  sweetest  strain — 
Our  pains  sbiall  soon  be  crown'd  with  joy,  our  journey  not  in  vain  ! 

Now  stand  the  minstrck  twain  within  those  halls  of  pride. 

Whilst  on  Uieir  gorgeous  thrones  sit  the  king  and  his  fair  bride,— 

The  king  in  dreadfiU  splendour,  like  the  bloody  northern  light, 

His  genUe  queen,  with  eyes  that  beam  like  the  moon  so  pale  and  bright. 

The  old  man  struck  the  harp,  his  touch  the  chords  awoke, — 
Oh  !  thrilling  were  the  glorious  tones  that  forth  from  prison  broke  I 
The  youth  he  raised  his  dear  sweet  voice,  a  strain  to  make  them  weep, 
Whilst  sound  between,  like  spirits'  chant,  the  old  man's  notes  so  deep. 

They  sang  of  spring  and  love,  of  the  blessed  golden  time, 
When  man  was  free  and  happy,  when  earth  was  in  her  prime  ; 
They  sang  all  tender  feelings  that  in  the  heart  find  rest, 
All  noble  aspirations  that  animate  the  breast. 


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S3SL  THB   minstrel's  CURSE. 


The  oourtiert  in  the  eirde  foigei  the  eoeastemed  i 
The  king*!  fierce  werrion  bend  in  awe,  ae  thourh  their  Ood  were  near. 
The  queen,  with  happy  smile,  I  ween,  and  shedding  tears  of  ioy. 
Throws  the' flower  from  her  bosom  to  yon  fair-hair'd  minstru  boy. 

"  You  have  bewitched  my  people,  will  vou  now  seduce  my  wife  1** 
The  king  ezclaim*d,  his  eyes  inflamedL  betokening  inward  strils. 
And  at  the  youth^s  defenceless  breast  iiis  guttering  sword  he  fliaga^ 
Behold !  whence  issued  golden  songs  a  bloody  torrent  springs. 

Silent  they  stand  on  either  hand,  that  gav  and  proud  array ; 
The  youth  within  his  master's  arms  has  breathed  his  soul  away. 
He  wraps  him  in  his  mantle,  he  leaves  the  hall  with  speed. 
And  holding  fast  the  much-loved  child  he  quickly  mounts  his  steed. 

But  at  the  gates  awhile  he  waits,  that  minstrel  old  and  hoar  ; 
He  seized  lus  harp,  the  harp  far  prized  all  other  harps  before. 
He  dashed  it  on  the  marble  steps,  his  fingers  rent  the  chords, 
Aloud  he  calls,  through  groves  and  halls  resound  his  fearful  words. 

'^  Woe  to  you,  haughty  castle !  may  never  music^s  strain. 

Nor  play  of  strings,  nor  hero*s  song,  salute  your  walls  again. 

No !  sighs  and  moans,  and  heavy  sroans,  and  the  slave's  uncertain  tread. 

Till  those  you  harbour,  one  and  dH,  be  numberM  with  the  dead. 

«<  Woe  to  you,  fragrant  gardens'!  so  blooming  and  so  gay  ! 
Behold  this  pale,  discolourM  face,  behold,  and  shrink  away ! 
Look  up  and  fisde  and  wither,  be  every  fountain  dried  I 
The  avenging  spirit  soon  shall  come  to  trample  all  your  pride. 

^«  Woe  to  thee,  cruel  murderer !  thou  scourge  of  minstrelsy  ! 

The  blood-stained  laurel-wreath  thou  crav'st  thy  guerdon  shall  not  be ; 

Thy  hateful  name  be  sunk  within  oblivion*s  night  for  ever, 

Like  one  faint  spark  that  fades  in  air,  iu  light  rekindled  never  !'* 

The  old  man's  doom  is  spoken,  the  heavens  have  heard  his  cry, 
Their  pillarM  arches  broken,  those  halls  in  ruin  lie, 
One  slender  column  standeth  yet.  relic  of  by-gone  power, 
But  by  a  passing  breeze  upset,  *twill  fall  within  an  hour. 

Those  odorous  gardens  are  become  a  barren,  desert  land  ; 
No  kindly  shade  is  seen,  no  stream  flows  cooling  through  the  sand  -, 
That  monarch's  name  is  lost  to  fame — no  loved  heroic  verse 
Shall  save  it  from  oblivion !— it  is  the  Minstrel's  Curse  ! 


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323 


LITERARY  NOTICES. 


BOHN  8   STANDARD   LIBRARY. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  intelli- 
gence  of  late  years  has  been  so  broadly 
diffused,  tliat  the  higher  productions  of 
genius  and  learning  have  at  last  a  cer- 
tainty of  finding  what  may  be  called  a 
general  appreciation,  whenever  a  pub- 
lisher has  sense  and  spirit  to  render 
them  acceptable  to  the  million.  Some 
there  are,  indeed,  who,  like  ^sop's 
cock,  still  prefer  the  barleycorn  to  the 
gem;  and  others  who  mistake  low- 
priced  and  fugitive  triviality  for  cheap 
literature ;  but  the  British  pubh'c  is  now 
alive  to  the  excellence  and  ^dignity  of 
letters,  and  it  will  not  be  long  before 
taste  will  once  more  lift  its  head 
amongst  us,  not  as  heretofore  confined 
to  the  few,  but  the  acquisition  of  the 
many. 

We  once  saw  in  a  grocer^  window — 
'^  A  bad  article  is  dear  at  any  price : — 
try  our  five  shilling  green.*'  We  ac- 
knowledged the  tnith  of  the  aphorism  ; 
but  hoped  that  the  innocent  vendor  of 
hyson  was  not  in  the  practice  of  im- 
pressing that  truth  upon  his  customers 
after  the  manner  he  had  shadowed  forth 
in  his  notification.  What  may  properly 
be  termed  a  cheap  book  ?  The  volume 
that  daims  such  an  appellation  must  be 
the  work  of  a  man  of  genius  or  learning, 
accurately  printed,  without  abridgment, 
of  an  el^^nt  form,  and  at  the  lowest 
possible  price  that  can  remunerate  a  pub- 
lisher. It  must  be  a  good  book  because 
a  bad  article  is  dear  at  any  price;  it 
must  be  elegant  of  form  beoMise  it  is  a 
dishonour  to  an  illustrious  author  to 
present  him  in  a  questionable,  slovenly, 
or  shabby-gented  shape,  and  that  men 
may  take  a  pride  in  Uie  property  they 
possess ;  and  it  must  be  at  a  low  figure 
that  all  may  have  the  way,  who  have 
the  wOl,  to  purchase. 

We  Imve  been  led  to  offer  the  foregoing 
brief  observations,  having  witnessed  <» 
late  several  laudable  attempu  to  supply 
the  public  at  a  low  price  with  works  of 
merit,  but  which  have  not  fulfilled  the 
conditions  we  attach  to  the  sense  of 
dieapness,  and  having  had  our  attention 
drawn  still  more  lately  to  Mr.  Bohn's 
admirable  series  of  the  best  English 
and  foreign  authors,  whidi  he  calls  his 
"Standard  Library.*'  Let  Mr.  Bohn 
speak  fer  himself.  He  says:  '*The 
publisher  ventures  to  assume  that  his 
unremitting  and  long-practised  expe- 
rience in  bodLs,  his  constant  intercourse 
with  the  learned  in  all  paru  of  the 
world,  and  his  extensive  literary  pro> 
VOL.   XXIIT. 


perty,  will  enable  him  to  bring  such 
resources  to  the  formation  of  his  *■*'  Stan- 
dard Library'*  as  shall  leave  little  or 
nothing  to  be  desired.  These  and  other 
facilities  have  suggested  the  present  un- 
dertaking, and  concurrent  circumstances 
have  hastened  its  commencement.  As 
holder  of  many  valuable  copyrights 
(including  Rosooe's  Leo  the  Tenth, 
Lorenzo  de  Medici,  and  the  works  of 
Robert  Hall,  which  were  being  pirated) 
the  publisher  considers  it  incumbent  on 
him  to  take  into  his  own  hands  the  pub- 
lication of  tliem  in  a  cheap  and  popular 
form,  rather  than  leave  them  to  the 
piecemeal  appropriation  of  others." 

If  this  had  been  an  extract  from  a 
prospectus  recently  put  forth,  we  had 
hardly  quoted  it;  but  Mr.  Bohn  has 
done  enough  since  it  was  written,  to 
assure  us  diat  every  promise  contained 
or  implied,  in  his  address  to  the  public, 
will  be  faithfully  fulfilled.  In  handsome 
and  goodly-sized  volumes  at  three-and- 
sixpence  each,  we  have  the  works  of 
Robert  Hall  and  of  Roscoe ;  of  Schiller, 
Sdilegel,  Macchiavelli,  Sismondi,  and 
Lamartine;  the  Memoirs  of  Benve- 
nuto  Cellini  and  of  Colonel  Hutchinson, 
by  his  widow, — (two  works,  the  reading 
of  which  is  memorable  during  life)  have 
been  republished,  as  also  Beckmann*s 
History  of  Inventions,  Lanzi's  History 
of  Painting,  Ocklev's  History  of  the 
Saracens,  and  Ranke's  History  of  the 
Popes,  and  several  other  works  worthy 
enough  years  ago  to  be  called  <*  Stan- 
dard," but  only  now  put  in  the  way  of 
being  made  so  by  being  made  popular. 
Many  others  of  a  kindred  chanicter  are 
in  progress. 

The  great  mi^rity  of  the  works  pub- 
lished or  intended  to  be  published  by 
Mr.  Bohn  for  his  «<  Standard  Library  ** 
have  been,  as  we  have  in  effect  said, 
almost  beyond  the  reach  of  the  public, 
owing  to  the  high  price  at  which  they 
were  originally  issued.  But  his  *' An- 
tiquarian Library  "  oonsisto  of  a  cheap 
reprint  of  works  of  the  utmost  interest 
and  value,  whidi  to  all  but  one  in  a 
thousand  have  been  absolutely  sealed 
books.  Who  bat  a  student  or  a  collector 
of  books  has  ever  seen  a  copy  of  our  old 
chroniders,  historians,  or  travellers? 
There  is  ample  scope  here  for  Mr. 
Bohn's  enterprise;  and  we  feel  per- 
suaded he  will  not  be  slow  to  seize  upon 
treasures  that  lie  so  temptingly  wiUiin 
his  grasp. 

Lastly,  let  us  speak  of  the  '<  Classical 
Library."  It  is  a  happv  omen  of  the 
successful  manner  in  which  this  branch 


A    A 

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324 


LITERARY   NOTICES. 


of  Mr.  Bohn's  scheme  will  be  cmrried 
out,  that  Beloe^  vile  translation  of 
Herodotus  has  been  left  on  the  bank  of 
tiie  stream  of  oblivion,  and  that  a  new 
one  from  the  aooomplished  pen  of  the 
lamented  Cary  has  been  given  to  us. 
It  is  intended  that  this  library  shall 
contain  translations  of  all  the  ancients, 
Greek  and  Roman,  '^all  faithfully  trans- 
lated,'* says  Mr.  Bohn.  Good.  But  by 
whom  ?  In  the  case  of  Herodotus,  Cary 
may  well  displace  Beloe ;  but  when  our 
publisher  speaks  of  ^schylus,  Euri- 
pides, Sophocles,  and  Pindar,  and  Vir- 
gil, Horace,  and  Lucretius,  **  translated 
faithfully,"  in  good  faith  we  sa^  we 
almost  tremble.  There  is  no  faithfiil 
translation  of  true  poets,  who  must  by 
true  poets  be  transfused  into  English. 
Dryden*8  Virgil  is  not  to  be  equalled  bv 
mental  man  now  living,  and  his  Tentn 
Satire  of  Juvenal  who  shall  dare  touch 
after  him?  Mr.  Bohn  must  give  us 
editions  of  the  English  Poets  to  com- 
plete his  scheme. 

Illust&atioks  of  Ikstikct.  — 
By  Jonathan  Couch,  F.L.S. — John 
Van  Voorst. 

This  is  a  book  that  well  deserves  to 
be  read,  because  it  contains  many  very 
curious  and  interesting  anecdotes  of  the 
animal  creation,  illustrative  of  their  in- 
stincts. The  author  tells  us  that,  where- 
as poets  and  philosophers  have  said  that 
man  is  governed  bv  reason  as  animals 
are  by  instinct,  which  is  merely  an  un- 
reflecting impulse;  and  that  in  conse- 
quence of  this  mode  of  regarding  the 
subject  we  have  lost  the  advantage  of  the 
lessons  the  animal  creation  might  have 
taught  us  in  the  philosophy  of  even  the 
human  understanding,  it  is  one  object  of 
his  book  to  afford  a  different  estimate  of 
them.  It  is  his  wish  to  point  out  the 
path  by  which  a  better  knowledge  may 
be  acquired  of  the  conditions  of  their  in- 
tellectual existence.  He  thinks  that,  in 
the  words  of  Milton,  ^*  they  reason  not 
contemptibly,*'  and  that  if  a  higher  de- 
gree of  training  were  founded  on  a  dose 
studv  of  their  intellectual  faculties,  the 
result  would  be  of  importance  to  human 
interests.  He  observes,  that  the  day  is 
gone  by  when  the  students  of  Mind 
should  waste  their  time  in  abstract  dis- 
quisitions and  reasonings^  i  priorif  on 
the  nature  of  spirit,  and  in  laying  down 
its  law  of  derivation,  subsistence,  or  ac- 
tion ;  for  that  it  is  undeniable  that  such 
profound  inquiries  have  ended  in  very 
shallow  and  unsatisfactory  results  ;  and 
that  physical  science  has  advanced  only 
in  proportion  as  it  has  shaken  off  the 
encumbering  trammels  of  such  an  absurd 
system  of  study.  He  goes  on  to  remark 
that  that  confidence  which  the  search 


for  truth  ought  ever  to  inspire,  should 
make  the  seekers  after  it  bold  in  follow- 
ing such  guides  as  Hunter  and  Cuvier, 
and  men  of  kindred  minds,  and  superior 
to  the  fear  of  degrading  the  human 
mind,  of  which  they  may  be  accused,  in 
seeking  an  explanation  of  its  phenomena 
in  the  mental  propensities  and  capacities 
of  inferior  creatures. 

Now,  we  confess,  we  do  not  believe 
that  any  degree  of  training  of  any  por- 
tion of  the  animal  creation,  however 
anxiously  pursued,  could  ever  be  found 
to  be  of  ''  importance  to  human  in- 
terests;*' and  shallow  as  may  be  the 
speculations  of  d  priori  reasoners,  we 
suspect  that  when  we  seek  an  explana- 
tion of  the  phenomena  of  the  human 
mind  in  the  mental  propensities  and 
capacities  of  inferior  creatures,  we  are 
not  likely  to  find  what  we  seek.  These 
profound  researches  not  unfrequently 
come  to  this,  that  the  mare*s  nest  is 
produced,  and  loudly  proclaimed  to  be 
the  very  nest,  the  "  procreant  cradle  "  of 
truth.  The  human  mind  can  never  be 
degraded  by  a  comparison  of  it  with  the 
mental  capabilities  of  the  animal  crea- 
tion ;  but  such  comparisons  are  vain 
and  idle.  Dr.  Johnson,  irritated  by  the 
frivolous  inquiries  of  Boswell,  broke  out 
with, — *'  Sir,  I  will  not  be  put  to  the 
question,  why  is  a  fox*s  tail  bushy,  why 
is  a  cow's  tail  long,  and  such  gabble.** 
Very  proper  inquiries  in  their  right 
place,  and  such  as  our  author  has  most 
interestingly  pursued ;  but  away  with 
speculations  that  seem  to  have  for  their 
object  an  attempt  to  approximate 
the  faculties  of  the  unprogressive  brute 
to  the  noble  and  accountable  faculties  of 


Observations  ik  Natural  His- 
tory. By  the  Rev.  Leonard  Jenyns. 
— John  Van  Voorst. 

The  author  of  this  work,  when  en* 
ffaged  some  years  back  in  preparing  notes 
for  a  new  edition  of  White's  "  Natural 
History  of  Selborne,"  soon  found  a 
larger  stock  of  matter  collected  upon  his 
hands  than  it  was  thought  desirable  to 
use  for  that  purpose.  Hence  the  idea  of 
the  present  work,  which  embodies  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  that  author.  And  a 
delightful  work  it  is.  The  author  has 
brought  together  his  miscellaneous  facu 
and  observations  without  attempting  to 
refer  them  to  any  particular  principles, 
and  the  result  is  such  a  ooll«ttion  of 
amusing  and  instructive  reading  in  Na- 
tural History,  as  we  believe  no  other 
man  could  have  brought  together.  It  is 
a  worthy  companion  to  White's  charm- 
ing book,  and  we  are  certain  will  become 
a  favourite  with  the  publia 


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326 
KING     MOB. 

BY  MRS.  ROMBB. 
WITH    A   PORTRAIT  OF   M.  OB   LAHARTINB. 

^<  Tu  Tas  voolu,  Georges  Dandin  */* 

MOLIEKE. 

Wr  leave  the  application  of  the  above  epigraph  to  be  made  by  our 
readers. 

If  there  were  not  something  pitiful  in  the  self-complacent  moraliz- 
ings  of  the  '^  prophets  of  the  past/'  something  stupid  and  ungene- 
rous in  the  exclamation  of  ''  I  always  foresaw  how  things  would  turn 
out !"  which  so  often  hails  the  announcement  of  a  misfortune  after  it 
has  happened,  we  might  be  tempted  to  indulge  in  a  series  of  sapient 
reflections  upon  the  blindness  and  obstinacy  that  have  brought  about 
the  astounding  events  of  the  last  few  days,  and  annihilated  the 
dynasty  of  July.  But  we  forbear.  Misfortune  has  so  sacred  a  charac- 
ter in  our  eyes,  that  even  when  precipitated  by  wilfulness  and  error, 
we  shrink  from  reflecting  upon  its  cause, — we  can  only  think  of  its 
effects.  In  the  present  instance,  we  picture  to  ourselves  the  unhappy 
exile  driven  forth  with  contumelv,  in  his  old  age,  to  die  in  a  foreign 
land ;  and  we  for|;et  the  faults  ot  the  king  in  the  sorrows  of  the  man. 
In  the  days  of  his  prosperity,  we  were  no  admirer  of  le  Roi  Cuotfeti, 
in  the  hour  of  his  adversity  we  are  fain  to  remember  only  the  better 
part  of  Louis  Philippe  d'Orleans ;  and  we  are  not  ashamed  to  own  that 
we  have  shed  a  tear  over  his  fall. 

But  it  is  not  of  the  ex-King  that  we  have  sat  down  to  discourse,  but 
of  his  successor.  "  Le  Roi  est  mort — Vive  le  Roi !"  or,  in  other  words, 
"  the  dynasty  of  July  is  defunct ;  Long  live  King  Mob  I"  For  once 
we  will  be  a  courtier,  and  speak  and  think  only  of  the  new  sovereign. 

It  is  a  curious  thing-^but  ^  more  curious  than  pleasant— to  watch 
the  operations  of  anarchy  from  one's  drawing-room  window ;  and  our 
residence  upon  the  Boulevards  of  Paris  has  enabled  us  to  witness  some 
of  the  most  exciting  episodes  of  the  recent  revolution.  The  newspa- 
pers have  already  given  to  the  public  an  outline  of  the  principal  occur- 
rences of  the  i&nd,  23rd,  and  24th  of  February  ;  but  some  minm* 
details  are  involved  in  the  great  whole,  which,  albeit  beneath  the  no- 
tice of  leading-article-mongers,  may  become  palatable  when  presented 
under  a  less  pretending  form,  and  gather  interest  from  being  related  by 
an  eye-witness. 

Everybody  is  acquainted  with  the  events  that  preceded  the  cata- 
strophe, but  not  even  the  most  clear-sighted  appear  to  have  anticipated 
to  its  actual  extent  the  overwhelming  result ;  for  although  the  perti- 
nacious determination  of  the  late  government  not  to  retract  the  wither- 
ing censure  passed  upon  the  reform  banquets  in  the  speech  from  the 
throne  Tcomprised  in  the  expressions  ''  passions  aveugles  et  ennemies," 
and  followed  by  a  prohibition  of  the  banquet  which  had  been  an- 
nounq^d  to  take  place  on  the  22nd  of  February)  had  awakened  consi- 
derable uneasiness  in  the  public  mind,  it  was  confidently  believed  that 
nothing  beyond  an  ichauffourie  endine  in  the  overthrow  of  the  Ouizot 
ministry  would  ensue.  But  the  ministry  was  determined  not  to  fall 
without  a  struggle,  and  therefore  an  imposing  military  force  of  seventy- 
five  thousand  men  had  been  assembled  in  and  about  Paris,  und  was 

VOL.   XXIII.  B   B 


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326  KINO   MOB. 

deemed  more  than  sufficient  for  the  maintenance  of  order.  '*  There 
may  perhaps  be  a  few  broken  windows,  and  then  Ouizot  will  go 
out,  and  Mole  will  come  in,"  was  the  general  rejoinder  to  every  an- 
xious enquiry ;  and  in  this  comfortable  belief  Tuesday  the  22nd  was 
ushered  in. 

But  those  opposition  leaders  who  had  raised  the  popular  passions 
found  that  they  had  evoked  spirits  which  they  might  be  powerless  to 
lay ;  and  shrinking  from  the  responsibility  of  what  might  ensue  if  they 
persevered  in  their  determination,  the  banquet  was  abandoned  by  them 
in  the  eleventh  hour. 

The  concession  came  too  late. 

Already  the  note  of  prepmration  had  sounded.  The  Boulevards  and 
principal  thoroughfares  were  thronged  with  workmen  in  blouses,  and 
ragged  gamins  prowling  about  with  countenances  full  of  direful  mean- 
ing ;  and  some  crowds  of  them  who  had  gathered  in  the  Place  de  la 
Madeleine  and  round  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  crying  **  Vive  la  Re- 
forme  I"  were  dispersed  by  the  Municipal  Guards  and  parties  of  mili- 
tary. Some  cart-loads  of  firewood  were  pillaged,  and  the  depredators 
mad^  a  rush  down  the  Boulevards,  brandishing  the  purloined  faggots, 
and  throwing  them  at  the  windows.  They  were  followed  by  a  detach- 
ment of  the  line,  the  commanding  officer  in  a  loud  voice  enjoining  the 
inhabitants  on  either  side  of  the  way  to  close  their  casements,  and  in  a 
short  time  all  the  shops  were  shut.  The  rappel  beat  to  arms  for  the 
National  Guard ;  but  that  being  a  voluntary  service,  the  summons  was 
disregarded — a  convincing  proof  that  they  did  not  sympathize  with  the 
cause  they  were  called  upon  to  uphold.  This  circumstance  partly 
opened  the  King's  eyes  to  the  thorough  unpopularity  of  the  course  be 
was  pursuing,  but  did  not  induce  him  to  desist.  Possibly  he  felt  him- 
self too  far  engaged  to  retreat  with  honour^  and  that  desperate  convic- 
tion caused  him  to  lose  his  wonted  judgment  for  a  moment ;  for,  upon 
its  being  observed  to  him  that  the  National  Guard  were  deaf  to  the 
call  to  arms,  it  is  asserted  that  he  petulantly  exclaimed,  ''  £h,  bien ! 
nous  nous  en  passerons  1" 

That  evening  there  was  an  ominous  absence  of  the  usual  sounds  of 
Parisian  life  in  the  streets,  but  the  distant  murmur  of  the  coming 
storm  made  itself  heard.  The  indefatigable  rappel  smote  upon  the  ear, 
now  approaching,  now  receding  ;  scarcely  any  carriages  were  in  circu- 
lation, and  in  lieu  of  the  roUing  wheels,  the  tramp  of  heavy  foot- 
steps was  everywhere  heard  pacing  in  cadence  to  the  chteur  des  Giron* 
difis,  "  Mourir  pour  la  Patrie,"  chanted  in  chorus  by  the  stentorian 
voices  of  the  people.  In  the  course  of  the  night  some  barricades  were 
made  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Halle,  and  some  partial  struggles 
with  the  Municipal  Guard  took  place. 

But  on  Wednesday  morning  affairs  wore  a  more  serious  aspect.  The 
assembled  crowds  were  more  dense,  their  bearing  more  determined, 
their  movements  more  threatening.  The  display  of  military  force  was 
considerably  increased;  the  Place  Louis  Quinze  and  the  Carousel  were 
filled  with  troops,  and  patrols  constantly  passed  through  the  streets, 
the  mob  flying  before  them  only  to  congregate  again  in  some  other 
quarter.  The  National  Guard  at  last  turned  out  in  considerable  num- 
bers, evidently  under  an  apprehension  that  the  tranquillity  of  the  city 
was  seriously  compromised,  but  not  with  a  view  to  repress  the  popular 
feeling,  with  which  it  was  apparent  they  fully  sympathized.  £very 
patrol  of  the  National  Guard  was  followed  by  an  excited  mass  of  peo- 


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KING   MOB.  327 

pie,  crying  **  Vive  la  Garde  Nationale !  Vive  la  Refonrie !  A  bas 
Guizot ! "  and  although,  generally  speaking,  they  up  to  this  period 
passively  allowed  this  demonstration,  in  some  instances  a  responding 
cry  would  echo  from  their  ranks.  In  short,  it  was  evident  that  the 
National  Guard,  although  disposed  to  control  disorder,  would  not  con« 
trol  the  impulse  that  was  likelv  to  produce  it. 

It  was  in  this  conjuncture  that,  towards  the  middle  of  the  day,  the 
twelve  colonels  of  the  twelve  legions  of  the  National  Guard  proceeded 
to  the  Tuileries,  and  obtained  an  audience  of  the  King,  to  state  the 
fruitlessness  of  their  efforts  to  lead  their  men  to  act  against  the  popu- 
lace, for  that,  however  they  might  repress  outrage  &r  the  moment, 
every  instant  led  to  fraternizing  with  the  people*  Their  representa- 
tion decided  Louis  Philippe  upon  yielding,  and  he  then  authorized 
Monsieur  Guizot  to  state  to  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  then  sitting  that 
Comte  Mole  had  been  summoned  by  his  majesty  to  form  a  new  minis- 
try. Thus  a  fresh  instance  was  adaed  to  the  many  afforded  by  historv 
of  the  supreme  power  possessed  by  such  a  body  as  the  National  Guard. 
It  is  an  tmperium  in  imperio,  and  whether  that  body  be  styled  Praeto- 
rian Guard,  Janissaries,  Mamlukes,  or  National  Guard,  it  resolves  it- 
self into  the  same  thing, — a  deliberative  body  with  bayonets  in  their 
hands,  before  which  all  other  powers  of  the  state  vanish. 

The  announcement  of  the  change  of  ministry  flew  like  wildfire 
through  the  city,  and  appeared  to  produce  unbounded  satisfaction.  As 
the  officers  who  were  commissioned  to  disseminate  the  glad  tidings  to 
the  insurgents  rode  al<mg  the  Beolervrds,  they  were  at  each  moment 
stopped  by  eager  groups  of  questioners,  who  received  the  intelligence 
they  imparted  witn  clapping  of  hands,  and  shouts  of  "  Vive  le  Roi ! " 
The  enemies  of  the  government  were  propitiated  by  the  downfal  of 
their  political  opponent,  although  they  admitted  that  the  substitution 
of  Mol^  for  Guizot  was  not  likely  to  lead  to  any  material  change  of 
policy.  But  the  blow  was  struck,  and  humiliation  inflicted  upon  the 
government  and  the  dynasty  by  their  being  compelled  to  descend  from 
their  hitherto  haughty  and  unbending  position,  and  yield  to  the  exigency 
of  the  moment :  and  that  was  in  itself  sufficient  to  exhilarate  the  mal- 
contents. 

And  now  everything  wore  a  brighter  aspect.  The  people  who  had 
during  the  course  of  the  morning  broken  into  the  armourers'  shops,  and 
armed  themselves  with  every  description  of  weapon,  exchangea  their 
threatening  gestures  for  smiles,  and  their  furious  vociferations  for  the 
sweet  sounds  of  the  Girondin  chorus.  At  nightfall,  they  formed  into 
an  immense  procession,  and  paraded  the  Boulevards,  still  armed,  pre- 
ceded by  lighted  torches ;  and  for  the  last  time  the  loyal  cry  of  "  Vive 
le  Roi  I"  was  heard  in  Paris,  mingled,  however,  with  shouts  of"  Vive 
la  Reforme !"  and  "  A  bas  Guizot !"  Every  house  was  illuminated, 
end  thus  a  popular  commotion  was  speedily  converted  into  a  popular 
rejoicing,  and  "  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell,"  — when  a  cir- 
cumstance, which  has  generally  been  attributed  to  accident,  led  to 
the  terrible  explosion  that  toppled  down  the  throne  of  July,  and  crush- 
ed it  into  annihilation  beneath  the  barricades  upon  which  it  had  been 
raised  seventeen  years  aso. 

The  procession  just  alluded  to  directed  their  steps  to  the  Hotel  des 
Affaires  Etrang^res,  charitably  bent  upon  compelling  Monsieur  Guizot 
to  illuminate  in  honour  of  his  own  overthrow.  T%ey  found  a  strong 
military  post  in  the  court-yard  of  the  Hotel,  and  a  platoon  of  the  line 

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328  KING   MOB. 

drawn  np  in  front  of  it^  together  with  a  party  of  the  Municipal  Onard 
on  horseback  ;  but,  nothing  daunted^  they  proceeded  to  vociferate  for 
lights  to  be  exhibited,  and  evinced  a  determination,  in  case  of  non- 
compliance, to  break  into  the  house.  At  this  moment  a  shot  was  fired 
(from  whence  it  came  none  can  tell)>  but  the  officer  in  command,  con- 
ceiving it  to  be  an  attack,  ordered  his  men  to  fire>  and  a  volley  was 
poured  in  upon  the  mob  with  murderous  effect.  The  unfortunate  sol- 
diers were  mowed  down  by  their  infuriate  opponents,  and,  as  fast  as 
they  fell,  the  lighted  torches  were  applied  to  their  hair,  their  mousta- 
chios,  and  their  clothing,  to  make  sure  of  their  perishing  either  by 
sword  or  fire. 

It  is  supposed  th^  the  chance  shot  that  led  to  this  fatal  collision, 
was  not,  as  at  first  believed,  a  mere  accident,  but  the  work  of  some 
master-mind,  which  had,  upon  the  spur  of  the  moment,  resolved  upon 
rendering  the  people  and  the  military  the  instruments  of  a  sudden  and 
but  too  well-conceived  project.  The  republican  party,  ever  oh  the 
alert  to  turn  to  advantage  all  that  could  favour  their  views,  perceived 
that  an  opportunity  of  advancing  their  cause  was  about  to  slip  throuffh 
their  fingers,  and  that  the  demonstrations  of  discontent  they  had  set  in 
motion  were  subsiding  in  the  satisfaction  evinced  at  the  overthrow  of 
an  obnoxious  ministry.  As  that  event,  ulthough  a  step  towards  repub- 
lican views,  fell  very  far  short  of  them,  the  leader  of  that  party,  know- 
ing the  public  pulse  to  be  so  far  excited,  that  very  little  would  affain 
stimulate  it  to  fever  height,  and  that  some  act  of  violence  would  at 
once  set  every  angry  passion  afloat,  and  knowing,  too,  that  up  to  that 
moment  the  general  orders  to  the  troops  were  not  to  fire  unless  in  de^ 
fence^  is  supposed  to  have  directed  the  firing  of  that  mysterious  shot 
which  led  the  officer  commanding  the  troops  to  believe  that  it  was  an 
attack. 

Let  us  lose  no  more  time  in  conjectures  upon  that  which  has  already 
passed  into  the  category  off  aits  accomplis,  but  return  to  the  Boulevards. 

When  the  carnage  was  over  in  front  of  Monsieur  Guizot's  Hotel, 
the  people,  true  even  in  that  supreme  moment  to  their  instinct  for 
theatrioEd  effect,  raised  the  bleeding  bodies  of  their  slain  comrades  in 
their  arms,  and  carried  them  to  the  Cour  des  Messageries  Royales 
(Diligence  Office),  where  they  seized  upon  one  of  the  carts  belonging 
to  the  establishment,  and,  placing  the  dead  in  it,  proceeded  to  traverse 
the  Boulevards,  waving  blazing  torches  over  the  gnastly  heap,  and  yell- 
ing forth  the  terrible  cry  of  "  Vengeance !  Aux  armes !"  which  was 
quickly  caught  up  and  echoed  from  street  to  street  by  the  excited  mul- 
titude. As  the  sinister  cortege  passed  on  beneath  our  windows,  every 
other  sound  in  the  streets  became  hushed ;  the  illuminations,  one  by 
one,  were  extinguished,  the  noisy  crowds  fled  as  if  from  some  impend- 
ing danger,  and  the  city  was  left  to  darkness  and  silence. 

It  was  the  ominous  stillness  and  gloom  that  precede  the  thunder- 
clap. From  eleven  o'clock  till  one  in  the  morning  it  was  unbroken  by 
a  single  sound :  not  a  carriage-wheel  was  heard,  not  a  footfall  could  be 
detected,  not  a  patrol  approached  to  assure  us  that  protection  was  at 
hand  in  case  of  need.  Never  shall  we  forget  the  awful  suspense  of 
those  two  hours !  To  think  of  retiring  to  rest,  or  even  undressing,  was 
impossible :  that  unnatural  stillness  had  murdered  sleep  more  effectu- 
ally than  the  most  uproarious  manifestations  could  have  done.  As  we 
sat  with  our  frightened  servants  around  us,  a  stranee  sound  suddenly 
struck  upon  our  ears,  and  made  our  hearts  die  within  us.     We  rushed 


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KING  HOB.  329 

to  the  window,  and,  throwing  it  open,  beheld  the  verification  of  our 
worst  fears.  Groups  of  workmen  in  blouses  had  silently  assembled 
with  torches  and  pickaxes,  and  with  a  stem  determination  commenced 
tearing  up  the  pavement  and  cutting  down  the  trees  (the  only  trees 
spared  by  the  revolutionists  of  1830  were  the  acacias  before  our  door), 
in  preparation  for  the  morrow's  struggle.  Immediately  under  the 
windows  where  these  lines  are  written  were  erected  three  of  .the  prin« 
cipal  barricades  that  figured  in  the  late  revolution:  one  across  the 
Boulevard  Paissonni^e,  and  the  two  others  at  the  junction  of  the  Rue 
Montmartre  and  the  Faubourg  Montmartre  with  the  Boulevard.  The 
sound  of  the  uprooted  stones  as  they  were  thrown  upon  one  another, 
the  crash  of  the  falling  trees,  the  resolute  voices  of  the  workmen,  and 
the  nature  of  their  la^urs  at  that  unwonted  hour,  had  in  them  all  the 
strange  fascination  of  terror.  We  would  have  ffiven  worlds  to  have  shut 
the  sounds  from  our  ears,  and  yet  we  could  not  leave  the  window* 
When  the  work  of  destruction  was  completed,  they  smashed  the  lamps 
that  still  remained  lighted,  moved  onward  to  recommence  a  few  hun- 
dred paces  higher  up  on  the  Boulevard,  and  left  us  to  solitude  and 
utter  darkness.     And  thus  passed  Wednesday  night. 

A  death-like  silence  reigned  until  between  ^ve  and  six  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  a  voUey  of  musketry  at  the  adjacent  barricade  announced 
the  commencement  of  hostilities,  and  sent  us  trembling  to  the  window 
to  witness  the  arrival  of  a  large  military  force,  under  the  command  of 
General  Bedeau,  consisting  of  a  regiment  of  cuirassiers,  one  of  chas* 
seurs-a-cheval,  three  regiments  of  the  line,  and  a  battery  of  artillery. 
The  ragged  insurgents  who  had  been  left  to  guard  the  barricades  scam- 
pered away  before  the  platoon  firing,  and  the  soldiers  of  the  line  demo- 
lished in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  formidable  barriers  that 
had  been  constructed  during  the  night,  leaving  a  free  passage  for  the 
cavalry  and  artillery,  who,  together  iidth  the  infantry,  immediately 
took  up  their  position  on  the  Boulevard  just  above  our  residence.  After 
the  terrible  abandonment  of  the  night,  this  appearance  of  protection 
was  most  cheering ;  but  whatever  hopes  had  been  raised  by  the  arrival 
of  so  strong  a  force,  were  in  a  short  time  dashed  by  seeing  the  heroes 
of  the  night,  who  had  been  dispersed  by  the  soldiers,  return  with  an 
increase  of  numbers,  and  coolly  commence  reconstructing  their  barri- 
cades, while  the  troops  looked  on  tranquilly  within  a  hundred  paces  of 
them  without  attempting  to  interfere  with  their  work.  In  an  incredi- 
bly short  time  the  three  barricades  were  again  erected,  and  an  armed 
moby  not  amounting  in  number  to  one-fourth  of  the  troops  drawn  up 
within  a  few  yards  of  them,  ensconced  themselves  behind,  prepared 
"  to  do  or  die." 

Neither  party  did  anything,  however,  but  rested  on  their  arms  until 
half-past  ten  o'clock,  when  an  aide-de-camp  arrived  from  the  Tuileries 
and  announced  that  the  King  had  nominated  a  new  ministry,  at  the 
head  of  which  were  Messieurs  Thiers  and  OdiUon  Barrot.  Cries  of 
''Vive  la  Reforme!"  greeted  this  intelligence;  and  ere  they  had 
subsided  a  large  body  of  National  Guards  advanced  from  the  Faubourg 
Paissonniere,  accompanied  by  an  immense  mob  cheering  and  vociferat- 
ing for  reform,  and  took  up  their  position  with  the  troops,  with  whom 
the  whole  body  appeared  to  fraternize.  At  this  juncture.  Monsieur 
Odillon  Barrot  and  General  Lamoriciere  (who  had  just  been  appointed 
to  supersede  General  Jacaueminot  in  the  command  of  the  National 
Guard),  accompanied  by  Horace  Vernay,  rode  up  and  gave  orders  to 


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330  KINO  HOB. 

the  troops  to  retire^  making  fine  speeches  to  the  mob  in  the  name  of 
the  King,  who,  they  said,  wished  tor  no  protection  or  force  but  that 
afforded  by  "  les  braves  Gardes  Nationaux  et  le  brave  people  de  Paris/* 
A  sort  of  conference  was  held  between  the  officers  of  both  forces,  which 
terminated  in  the  word  of  command  being  given  to  the  tnwps  of  the 
line  to  march  off.  They  lost  no  time  in  doing  so,  reversing  their  mus- 
kets and  holding  the  butt  ends  uppermost  in  signal  of  their  determina- 
tion not  to  act ;  the  mob  with  the  utmost  cordiality  handing  them  over 
the  barricades,  and  saluting  them  with  enthusiastic  cries  of  '*  Vive  la 
ligne !"  Cavalry  and  artillery  followed,  and  defiled  along  the  Boule- 
vard in  perfect  order,  the  trumpets  sounding  a  retreat.  But  scarcely 
had  they  reached  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  ere  the  mob,  anxious  to 
assert  its  newly  acquired  power  by  some  practical  demonstration,  began 
to  disarm  the  soldiery ;  and  to  our  dismav  we  beheld  the  cannon  which 
had  just  passed  under  our  windows,  in  all  the  pomp  and  circumstance 
of  military  array,  forcibly  taken  frojn  their  guardian  artillerymen,  and 
brouffht  back  to  the  barricade  by  a  screaming  and  frantic  populace. 
SimiW  scenes  took  place  at  the  other  military  posts,  and  thus  in  a  few 
moments  was  Paris  delivered  over  to  the  people  under  the  semblance 
of  being  under  the  protection  of  the  National  Ouards ;  all  the  regular 
troops  being  withdrawn  from  the  city,  except  those  that  guarded  the 
chateau  of  the  Tuileries,  and  the  post  at  the  guard-house  in  ft'ont  of 
the  Palais  Royal. 

The  opportunit^r  afforded  by  this  tenure  of  power  was  not  to  be  lost 
by  the  Kevolutionists,  nor  was  it  lost.  The  momentary  influence  ob- 
tained over  them  by  Odillon  Barrot  and  Lamoridere  quickly  vanished, 
and  seditious  cries  marked  the  odium  with  which  the  new  ministry 
was  already  regarded.  *'  A  has  Thiers,  qui  a  fait  les  fortifications  de 
Paris  .'—4  bos  Chomme  des  lots  de  Septembrel"  burst  from  all  sides. 
At  last  the  people  no  longer  hesitated  to  proclaim  their  wishes,  and 
*'  d  has  Louis  Philippe  I"  was  echoed  by  a  thousand  voices. 

And  now  the  plot  thickened.  Dense  masses  from  the  faubourgs, 
armed  with  every  description  of  weapon  that  they  could  possess  them- 
selves of,  firom  the  arms  surrendered  by  the  troops  to  those  pillaged 
from  the  properties  of  the  theatres,  came  pouring  like  an  irresistible 
torrent  down  the  Boulevards,  gathering  its  thousands  as  it  rolled  along. 
Such  of  these  infuriated  patriots  as  had  not  yet  obtained  arms,  forced 
their  way  into  private  dwellings  to  require,  in  tones  that  admitted  of 
no  refusal,  that  whatever  weapons  they  contained  should  be  delivered 
to  them  forthwith.  Our  own  individual  courage  was  put  to  a  severe 
test  by  a  domiciliary  visit  of  that  description  from  nine  fierce-looking 
individuals  who  would  not  be  denied,  and  whom  we  were  obliged  to 
receive  with  all  the  courtesy  and  sang  froid  that  we  could  summon. 
To  do  them  justice  they  liehaved  with  much  civility,  and  on  finding 
that  their  search  was  fruitless,  and  that  neither  pistol,  gun,  nor  sabre 
formed  any  part  of  female  belongings,  Uiey  quietly  departed,  with 
many  apologies  for  the  trouble  they  had  eiven. 

The  terrific  appearance  of  this  rabble  rout  recalled  all  that  has 
been  written  of  the  risings  of  the  faubourgs  and  the  sections  in  the 
first  Revolution.  A  few  straggling  National  Ouards — iust  sufficient 
to  give  the  colour  of  a  movement  under  them — ^were  sprinkled  through- 
out ;  but  the  mass  was  composed  of  men  in  blouses,  their  sleeves  roll- 
ed up  to  their  shoulders,  and  their  naked  arms  brandishing  cutlasses, 
sabres,  pikes,  muskets,  pistols,  fowling-pieces,  fencing  swords,  and  in 


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KINO  MOB.  331 

many  instances  branches  of  trees  with  bayonets  affixed  to  them.  Some 
few  appeared  in  the  Roman  helmets  and  pasteboard  cuirasses  they  had 
pnrloined  from  the  theatres.  Women  were  there  too>  some  carrying 
nags  that  had  been  got  up  for  the  occasion  with  a  fragment  of  red'  rag 
tied  to  a  pike  staff;  and  one  old  fiend  marched  in  front,  shouldering 
like  a  mnsket  half  of  the  panel  of  a  door  that  had  been  torn  from  its 
hinges,  her  gray  hair  streaming  to  the  \vind,  and  a  branch  of  laurel 
stuck  into  her  head-kerchief.  Amidst  the  deafening  din  raised  by 
their  vociferations,  and  the  sort  of  fury  with  which  they  yelled  the 
Marseillaise,  one  cry  suddenly  predominated ;  "  Aux  Tuiteries  r  and, 
sweeping  down  the  Rue  Richdieu,  the  monstrous  gathering  directed 
its  fearful  course  towards  the  palace,  without  encountering  any  resist- 
ance save  from  a  gallant  detachment  of  the  line  occupying  the  post  of 
the  Chateau  d'Eau,  in  the  Place  du  Palais  Royal.  The  officer  in  com- 
mand, on  refusing  to  surrender  his  arms,  was  bayonetted  on  the  spot ; 
and  his  brave  men — the  only  ones  who  did  their  duty — were  all  mas- 
sacred, and  the  guard-house  burnt  to  the  ground. 

While  these  events  were  passing  on  tbe  Boulevard,  scenes  of  an- 
other description  were  enacting  within  the  precincts  of  the  palace. 
There  all  was  still  security.  The  court  of  the  palace  and  the  gar- 
dens were  filled  with  troops  under  the  command  of  the  Duke  of  Ne- 
mours ;  of  their  fideh'ty  there  was  no  reason  as  yet  to  doubt,  for  they 
had  not  been  called  upon  to  act,  consequently  had  not  been  exposed  to 
the  disheartening  process  of  being  led  out,  like  those  on  the  Boulevard, 
to  witness  the  triumph  of  lawless  violence  without  being  suffered  to 
repress  it.  The  king  had  passed  them  in  review  in  the  morning,  and 
was  satisfied  that  with  such  a  guard  he  had  nothing  to  fear.  But  in 
the  midst  of  his  security.  Monsieur  Thiers  abruptly  entered,  and  an- 
nounced to  his  majesty  that  the  game  was  up!  that  the  National 
Guard  had  made  common  cause  with  the  people,  that  the  troops  would 
not  act,  that  the  mob  was  in  full  career  to  storm  the  Tuileries,  and 
that  any  attempt  to  resist  them  would  only  occasion  a  useless  effusion 
of  blood  I  His  words  were,  "  Sire,  vou8  n'avez  pas  d'option,  il  favt 
abdiquer  /"  The  Duke  of  Montpensier  seconded  the  counsel  of  the 
minister;  but  the  Queen,  who  was  present,  surrounded  by  her  little 
grandchildren,  with  the  tender  heroism  of  a  woman  and  a  wife,  urged 
him  to  do  nothing  which  his  own  reason  or  his  own  wishes  did  not 
sanction.  "  Reste  id"  she  said,  '* it  lu  crois  devoir  lefaire.  Tu  sais 
comme  je  faime  ;  je  suis  prite  d  mourir  d  cot^  de  toi  I"  The  King's 
hesitations,  however,  were  overcome  by  the  urgent  entreaties  of  Mon- 
sieur Thiers ;  and  while  the  yells  of  the  approaching  mob  were  be* 
coming  audible,  he  signed  an  abdication  in  favour  of  his  grandson, 
the  Comte  de  Paris,  under  the  regency  of  the  Duchess  of  Orleans. 
**  Et  fnairUenani,partez,sire!  vous  n'avezpas  un  moment  d  perdrel" 
The  royal  pair  descended  to  the  garden  ot  the  Tuileries,  which  they 
traversed  in  the  direction  of  the  potU  iournant,  preceded  by  the  Duke 
of  Montpensier,  who  endeavoured  to  prevent  the  crowd  from  pressing 
too  rudely  upon  his  father.  A  few  National  Guards,  and  one  or  two 
deputies  accompanied  them,  one  of  whom,  indignant  at  seeing  the 
crowd  keep  their  hats  on  in  the  King's  presence,  exclaimed :  "  Mes^ 
tieurs,  decouvrez  vous  in  presence  du  B(d  /"—-'*  lln*y  a  plus  de  Roil'* 
was  the  answer.  "  Alons,  si  vous  ne  respeelez  pbts  le  Rot,  respectez  au 
mains  le  malheur"  was  indignantly  urged  by  tbe  speaker.  *'  Et  le  crime 
done  f"  was  all  that  could  be  extracted  from  the  stubborn  republican. 


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332  KINO  HOB. 

The  King,  when  he  quitted  his  palaee,  wished  and  intended  to  have 
directed  his  steps  to  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  but  the  few  persons 
who  escorted  him,  fearing  for  his  safety,  urged  the  fugitives  on  towards 
the  Place  Louis  Quinze,  where  a  couple  of  one*h<Nrse  vehicles  were  in 
waiting  for  them.  By  a  strange  fatolity,  the  group  was  brought  to  a 
stand  still  close  to  the  pedestal  of  the  Obelisk  of  Luxor,  on  the  very 
spot  where,  fifty-five  vears  before,  the  first  royal  victim  to  the  cause  of 
liberty  in  France  haa  expiated  by  his  blood  the  misfortune  of  having 
fallen  upon  times  which  he  had  neither  genius  to  comprehend  nor 
strength  of  character  to  compete  with.  What  the  feelings  of  Louis 
Philippe  were  at  that  moment  can  scarcely  be  imagined.  He  raised 
his  hat  from  his  head,  and  addressing  the  people  who  surrounded  him» 
"  Messieurs,"  said  he^  *'  c'est  vous  qui  m'avez  fail  monter  au  irSne^-^ 
c'es£  vous  qui  m'en  failes  descendre  I  Soyez  heureux,"  In  another 
moment  he  stepped  into  the  humble  vehicle  that  was  to  bear  him 
away  from  all  his  grandeur,  and,  like  our  royal  Richard,  ''not  one 
voice  cried  God  bless  him  I" 

The  news  of  the  abdication  was  immediately  conveyed  to  the  Place 
du  Palais  Royal,  where  the  conflict  was  still  going  on  between  the 
people  and  the  troops,  and  Marshal  Gerard  appeared  among  them  on 
horseback,  with  a  green  branch  in  his  hand,  hoping  that  the  intelli- 
gence would  pacify  all  angry  passions*  and  lead  to  the  cessation  of  hos- 
tilities. But  the  spirit  which  had  been  stirred  up  gained  strength 
with  every  fresh  act  of  daring,  and  the  people,  who  the  day  before 
would  have  gratefully  accepted  a  change  of  ministry  as  a  boon,  and  a 
change  of  measures  as  a  tribute  to  public  opinion,  now  indignantly  re- 
jected the  abdication  of  the  sovereign  as  an  insufficient  homage  to  their 
newly-acquired  supremacv ;  and  the  announcement  was  only  met  by 
increased  cries  of  "  Aux  Tuileries  I  d  bas  Louis  Philippe  !" 

At  that  moment  some  of  the  more  temperate  leaders  of  the  mob 
foreseeing  the  dreadful  carnage  that  must  take  place  should  they  come 
in  contact  with  the  large  body  of  troops  stationed  in  the  Carousel  and 
the  gardens  of  the  Chateau,  rushed  to  the  iron  gate  opening  from  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli,  and  entreated  to  be  admitted  to  an  interview  with  the 
Duke  of  Nemours,  who  still  remained  there  in  command  of  the  troops. 
What  passed  at  that  interview  is  unnecessary  to  detail,  but  its  practi- 
cal effect  was,  that  the  duke  gave  the  order  to  the  troops  to  retire, 
and  as  they  defiled  along  the  quays  and  through  the  gardens,  the  mob 
rushed  in  and  took  possession  of  the  palace.  ^ 

There  is  something  ignoble  in  this  precipitate  flieht  of  the  royal 
family,  who  departed  with  such  haste  and  in  such  disorder  that  the 
'^ sauve  qui  peut"  instinct  appears  to  have  scared  away  from  them 
every  other  sentiment  for  the  moment,  and  the  young  princesses  were 
left  to  make  the  best  of  their  way  out  of  the  tumult,  unaided  by  their 
husbands.  The  Parisian  populatiou  have  already  instituted  a  compa- 
rison between  the  flight  of  the  last  Bourbon  sovereign  in  1830,  and 
that  of  Le  Roi  des  Fran^ais  in  1848,  which  fully  expresses  the  estima- 
tion in  which  they  hold  the  latter :  they  say,  *'  Nous  avons  renvoyd 
Charles  Dix  d  coup  de  cannon,  et  nous  avons  chass^  Louis  Philippe  d 
coup  depieds  !  "  One  member  only  of  the  dynasty  appeared  to  maKe  a 
stand,  and  to  assert  the  rights  that  had  devolvea  upon  her  child. 
While  the  King  and  Queen  were  hastening  to  the  carriage  that  bore 
them  awav  from  Paris,  the  Duchess  of  Orleans,  accompanied  by  the 
Duke  of  Nemours,  proceeded  on  foot  with  her  two  sons  to  the  Cham- 


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KINO  HOB.  338 

ber  of  l>epatie8>  to  seek  fbr  support  at  the  hands  of  the  legislative 
body,  fbr  the  rights  of  the  Comte  de  Paris,  in  whose  fieiirour  his  grand- 
father had  aboicated.  But  it  was  too  late.  The  scene  of  violence 
that  was  exhibited  there  equalled  the  most  infuriate  episodes  of  the 
first  revolution ;  and  the  duchess  was  subjected  to  trials  as  painful  as 
those  that  had  been  inflicted  upon  Marie  Antoinette  in  the  stormy 
epoch  of  17d2.  The  moral  influence  of  the  deputies  had  vanished ; 
and  even  if  they  had  been  disposed  to  listen  to  the  pathetic  appeal  of 
die  duchess  when  she  attempted  to  address  them^  they  could  not  assert 
themselves,  fbr  the  chamber  was  not  only  morally  disorganized,  but  it 
was  under  the  influence  of  terror  from  physical  force  and  outrage.  Not 
only  the  galleries  devoted  to  the  public,  but  the  interior  of  the  Cham- 
ber, supposed  to  be  for  ever  sacreu  from  intrusion,  was  broken  in  upon 
by  a  furious  and  armed  mob,  from  whom  the  duchess  and  her  diildren 
were  driven  to  take  refuge  on  the  upper  benches  reserved  fbr  the  de- 
puties ;  and  when  Monsieur  Odillon  jBarrot,  to  his  eternal  credit,  at- 
tempted to  assert  the  cause  of  the  mother  and  son,  and  energetically 
declared  that  he  would  form  no  part  of  any  government  that  did  not 
acknowledge  rights  so  sacred,  every  musket  in  the  hands  of  the  mob 
was  sndd^y  kvelled  at  his  head,  with  vociferous  cries  for  the  re- 
public 

It  was  then  that  the  duchess  rose,  and  would  have  spoken ;  but  her 
voice  was  lost  in  the  tumult,  and  the  Duke  of  Nemours  compelling  her 
to  reseat  herself,  she  committed  to  paper  the  words  she  would  have 
uttered,  which  were  immediately  exhibited  upon  the  point  of  a  bayo- 
net. Their  substance  was  as  follows :  "  Gentlemen,  it  is  ft-om  the 
nation,  and  not  from  the  Chamber,  that  must  emanate  the  rights  of  my 
orphan  son ;  and  it  is  that  alone  which  his  widowed  mother  has  come 
to  ask  of  you." 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  uproar  that  ensued  can  only  be  likened 
to  Pandemonium ;  the  mob  pointing  their  muskets  at  the  heads  of  the 
deputies,  ready  to  fire  at  the  first  word  that  displeased  them.  So  much 
for  the  freedom  of  the  debate  that  sealed  the  feite  of  the  monarchy ! 
Had  it  not  been  for  this  physical-force  irruption,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
the  most  exaggerated  of  the  opposition  members  would  have  thought 
that  they  hadachieved  a  signal  political  victory  by  the  adoption  of  the 
regency  of  the  Duchess  of  Orleans.  But  Monsieur  Ledru  Rollin,  tak- 
ing advantage  of  the  panic  that  had  been  produced,  as  soon  as  any  voice 
could  be  heard,  declared  that  the  Chamber  had  no  power  to  accept  a 
regency,  and  that  the  people  only  were  to  be  appealed  to.  Monsieur 
de  Lamartine  followed,  demanding  that  a  provisional  government, 
based  upon  the  sufirages  of  the  people,  shoula  be  formed ;  and  one  or 
two  others  expressed  themselves  in  the  same  sense. 

At  that  moment,  the  gates  of  the  Chamber  were  broken  in  by  a  se- 
cond mob  more  terrible,  if  possible,  than  the  first.  The  deputies  has- 
tily evacuated  the  Chamber,  and  adjourned  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  to 
carry  out  measures  for  a  provisional  government.  Some  charitable 
individuals,  seising  the  little  princes  in  their  arms,  saved  them  from 
being  crushed  to  death.  The  ouchess,  half-fainting,  was  with  difficulty 
removed  with  them  to  the  Invalides;  and  the  Duke  of  Nemours, 
jumping  out  of  an  open  window  that  was  pointed  out  to  him,  escaped 
through  the  garden  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies. 

The  inteQigence  of  what  had  taken  place  was  shortly  afterwards 
conveyed  to  us  on  the  Boulevards  by  the  terrible  vox  popuU.    **  Vive 


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334  KING   MOB. 

la  Republique !"  had  now  sapeneded  every  other  cry*  add  a  startling 
proof  that  royalty  was  indeed  destroyed^  soon  passed  before  our  eyes. 
The  countless  mob  which  had  two  hours  before  gone  forth  with  such 
relentless  purpose  to  storm  the  Tuileries*  now  returned  triumphant 
ft>om  the  sack*  beariufl:  with  them  the  throne  of  Louis  Philippe  shorn 
of  its  royal  crown  and  cypher*  on  its  way  to  the  Place  de  la  bastille* 
where  they  subsequently  executed  poetical  justice  upon  it  by  burning 
it  at  the  foot  of  the  column  of  July*  and  scattering  its  ashes  to  the 
winds.  An  endless  multitude  followed  with  blood-red  flags*  frantic 
with  excitement*  and  each  bearing  aloft*  stuck  upon  the  point  of  a 
bayonet  or  pike*  some  spoil  from  the  scene  of  deTsstation*  One  horri- 
ble trophy  spoke  eloquently  of  the  struggle  that  had  taken  place.  The 
battered  and  blood-stained  casques  of  the  unfortunate  Municipal  Guards 
who  had  been  massacred  by  the  mob  were  carried  upon  pikes*  and  de- 
risively cheered  with  "  bravos"  and  clapping  of  hands  as  they  passed 
along.  Then  came  figures  at  once  so  terrific  and  so  grotesque*  that  in 
the  midst  of  our  horror  we  could  not  forbear  smiling  and  asking  our- 
selyes  if  it  were  not  some  Mardi  Gras  parade  we  were  witnessing — 
some  carnival  saturnalia*  directed  by  the  ''Abbot  of  Unreason" — instead 
of  the  evidences  of  a  bloody  and  ruthless  struggle  which  had  ended  in 
the  overthrow  of  one  of  the  greatest  monarchies  upon  earth. 

It  is  vain  to  assert  that  nothing  was  plundered  from  the  Tuileries 
on  that  day.  Every  individual  of  that  rabble  rout  exhibited  some 
share  of  the  spoil  either  upon  his  person  or  upon  his  arms.  One  gamin 
with  half  of  a  state  livery  coat  upon  his  back*  came  capering  along* 
shouting*  *'  Ou  est  le  tailleur  du  Roi  ?  Envoyez  moi  done  le  tailleur 
de  Louis  Philippe."  Others  wore  the  cocked  hats  of  the  King's  coach- 
men surmounted  with  beautiful  wreaths  of  artificial  flowers*  which  had 
doubtless  belonged  to  the  princesses.  Some  had  dressed  themselves  in 
the  crimson  and  gold  table-covers  of  the  state  apartments.  One  man 
carried  an  ermine  muff  upon  his  pike*  another  a  velvet  cushion*  an* 
other  a  splendid  tortoise-shell  cat  (probably  a  royal  pet)*  which  had 
been  strangled  and  suspended  there  *  another  a  haunch  of  venison 
spitted  upon  his  bayonet*  another  a  quartier  de  chevreuil  piqui.  In 
short*  the  whole  menu  of  the  royal  table  for  that  day  was  exhibited 
upon  the  pikes  of  the  ragged  multitude ;  and  as  they  swept  along*  in- 
toxicated with  their  success*  the  deafening  din  caused  by  the  sound  of 
those  thousands  of  voices  chanting  the  Marseillaise*  combined  with  the 
tramping  of  those  thousands  of  feet*  hurrying  on  in  the  flush  of  lawless 
excitement*  strudc  upon  our  ears  like  the  knell  of  order  and  security. 

We  could  no  longer  submit  to  remain  a  quiet  spectator  from  a  win- 
dow of  these  stirring  events ;  and*  taking  a  frienas  arm*  directed  our 
steps  towards  the  Tuileries*— a  service  of  much  fatigue  and  some  dan- 
ger* for*  independent  of  the  dense  and  frantic  masses  that  obstructed 
the  streets*  a  constant  fusiUade  was  kept  up  by  the  excited  rabble,  who 
were  firing  for  joy  in  all  directions*  and  many  were  the  fatal  accidents 
that  occurred  that  evening  in  consequence.  With  considerable  diffi- 
culty we  reached  the  Tuileries  by  the  Boulevards  and  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix.  But  what  a  scene  did  the  palace  display  I  King  Mob*  flushed 
with  victory*  sat  enthroned  amidst  the  ruins  of  the  monarchy  he  had 
overturned*)  and  with  his  foot  planted  upon  the  neck  of  the  defunct 
dynasty*  held  his  first  court  in  those  gilded  saloons. 

Every  part  of  the  princeljr  pile*  from  the  ground-floor  to  the  garrets* 
was  filled  to  overflowing  with  the  majestic  presence  of  the  sovereign 


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KING  MOB.  336 

people.  Fuinitare»  dresses,  papers,  were  flying  out  of  the  windows 
(or  rather  window-frames,  for  not  a  pane  of  glass  was  left  whole)  and, 
as  fast  as  they  reached  the  ground,  were  collected  into  a  heap  and  con- 
Terted  into  bonfires.  But,  strange  anomaly,  even  then  some  system  of 
order  had  been  established,  and  no  plunder  in  the  shape  of  robbery 
was  permitted.  Destruction  and  devastation  were  not  only  tolerated, 
but  encouraged ;  but  when  the  first  rush  was  over,  and  those  trophies 
I  had  seen  on  the  Boulevard  had  been  borne  ofl^,  a  most  rigorous  police 
had  been  instituted  by  the  destroyers,  and  was  already  in  full  operation 
by  the  -time  we  reached  the  scene  of  action.  Sentinels  were  posted  at 
all  the  issues  from  the  palace  and  gardens,  and  every  person  leaving 
the  premises  was  examined  to  ascertain  that  they  carried  away  nothing 
with  them.  "  Brulez  tant  que  tous  voulez,  mais  n'emportez  rien," 
was  the  mot  d'ordre,  and  in  more  than  one  instance  where  an  attempt 
had  been  made  to  evade  it,  the  culprits  had  been  placed  upon  their 
knees  and  shot  through  the  head  on  the  spot  pour  encourager  Us  attires* 
To  be  sure,  the  incipient  palace  guard  was  of  a  most  burlesque  de- 
scription, both  as  to  dress  and  equipment.  Ragged  blouses  predomi- 
nated ;  and  the  colossal  granite  lions  at  the  gates  of  the  Pavilion  de 
I'Horloge  were  bestridden  by  patriots  in  that  guise,  with  their  faces 
blackened  with  powder,  pistols  stuck  in  their  girdles,  the  cross-belts 
and  side-arms  of  some  plundered  soldier  slung  over  their  shoulders, 
and  naked  sabres  flashing  in  their  hands, — ^the  very  heau  ideal  of  re- 
publican life-guardsmen.  Every  description  of  arms  and  accoutre- 
ments were  pressed  into  the  service,  and  in  one  instance  we  noticed  an 
enthusiastic  patriot  with  not  only  his  fowling-piece,  but  his  pointer- 
dog.  Doubtless  the  faithful  animal  thought  the  gun  had  no  right  to  a 
day's  shooting  without  his  joining  in  it. 

We  passed  from  the  Tuileries  to  the  Palais  Royal  through  the  scene 
of  the  greatest  carnage  that  had  taken  place  during  the  struggle,  the  post 
of  the  Ubateau  d'£au,  where  the  soldiery  had  remembered  their  duty  to 
their  sovereign,  and  perished  asserting  it.  The  guard-house  had  been 
completely  burned,  and  nothing  but  the  stone  fsi^ade  remained  stand- 
ing, blackened,  and  as  thickly  indented  with  bullet-marks  as  a  face 
seamed  with  the  small-pox.  The  Gallerie  d'Orleans  of  the  Palais 
Royal  had  been  converted  into  an  ambulance  or  temporary  hospital  for 
the  wounded,  many  of  whom  were  being  conveyed  there  upon  stretchers 
contrived  out  of  door  and  window-shutters.  The  palace  itself  pre- 
sented a  similar  picture  of  devastation  with  the  Tuileries,  every  species 
of  destruction  being  deemed  not  only  lawful,  but  meritorious.  Four- 
teen of  the  King's  carriages  had  been  burned  in  the  Conr  d'Honneur, 
amidst  the  acclamations  of  the  populace,  and  upon  the  smoking  em- 
bers were  flung  from  the  windows  pianofortes,  couches,  chairs,  and  the 
defaced  and  mutilated  armorial  bearings  of  the  house  of  Orleans  torn 
from  the  walls  and  cast  into  the  mud,  to  complete  the  funeral  pile  of 
royalty. 

The  appearance  of  the  city  was  awful  in  the  extreme :  every  shop 
closed^  every  lamp  smashed,  not  a  vehicle  of  any  kind  to  be  seen,  aU 
circulation  impeded,  barricades  at  the  end  of  every  street,  bristling 
with  bayonets  and  surmounted  by  red  flags ;  the  pavements  torn  up 
the  trees  cut  down ;  the  crest-fallen  National  Guard  disarmed,  and  a 
dense  population  of  the  ragged  heroes  of  the  day  perambulating  the 
thoroughfares  in  masses,  armed  at  all  points,  and  firing  ofl^  their  pieces 
in  very  wantonness  of  glee. 


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336  KING   MOB. 

Thus  ended  that  eventful  Thursday,  whose  terrors  could  only  be 
equalled  by  those  anticipated  for  the  approaching  night.  The  con- 
sciousness that  we  were  entirely  in  the  hands  and  at  the  mercy  of  the 
people,  all  troops  withdrawn  from  the  city,  everything  in  the  shape  of 
police  force  disorganized,  and  the  Municipal  Guard  (hitherto  the  pro- 
tection of  the  citizens)  either  killed  or  dispersed,  filled  all  with  appre- 
hension. Marvellous  to  relate,  however,  nothing  like  outrage  was 
perpetrated.  King  Mob,  terrible  in  his  fury,  shewed  himself ''bon 
Prince"  in  the  hour  of  success^  and  displayed  a  moderation  and  calm 
that  it  would  be  worse  than  uneandid  not  to  admire.  Patrols  of  men 
looking  like  brigands  circulated  through  the  streets  all  night,  and  the 
barricades  remamed  guarded,  lest  any  attempt  at  counter-revolution 
mi^ht  be  made  upon  the  town.  In  short,  a  wonderful  system  of  order 
suddenly  sprung  u^  out  of  the  disorder  that  had  reigned  a  few  hours 
before ;  and  it  is  diifficult  to  withhold  assent  to  the  remark  made  to  us 
by  a  French  gentleman  (I  beg  pardon,  I  must  now  say  a  cUayen),  who 
while  lamenting  the  events  tJ^t  had  taken  place,  exclaimed :  "  II  faut 
avouer  qu'en  France  tout  sentiment  d'honneur  s'est  refngi^  chez  le 
peuple.'* 

Ten  days  have  now  elapsed  since  the  victory  achieved  by  the  people. 
Order  has  been  re-established,  but  not  confidence ;  and  sad  and  anxious 
are  the  anticipations  for  the  fdture.  The  Provisional  Gh>vernment  has 
made,  and  is  making,  efforts  almost  superhuman  to  discharge  the  oner* 
ous  duties  which  its  devoted  members  have  taken  upon  themselves. 

But  the  great  and  absorbinff  subject  of  anxiety  is  the  approach- 
ing elections,  for  the  National  Assembly,  fixed  for  the  9th  of  April. 
Passions  and  schisms  are  already  fomenting;  Utopian  theories  and 
expectations  are  beginning  to  be  vociferous;  stormy  questions  as 
to  the  regulation  of  labour,  and  the  wages  of  workmen,  are  agi- 
tated; and  a  gloom  such  as  we  never  before  witnessed  in  this 
country,  has  enveloped  Paris  in  an  atmosphere  of  doubt  and  dread. 
Undoubtedly  the  mass  of  public  opinion  goes  with,  and  supports, 
the  government,  and,  above  all,  pays  tribute  to  the  devotedness,  in- 
telligence, and  loyalty  of  its  brightest  ornament.  Monsieur  de  Lamar- 
tine.  His  courage  in  resisting  the  recent  demand  of  the  combatants 
of  the  barricades  to  change  the  national  colours,  and  substitute  the  red 
flag  of  revolt  adopted  by  them  on  the  late  occasion  for  the  tricolor, 
consecrated  by  so  many  glorious  memories,  was  absolutely  sublime; 
and  his  attitude,  words,  and  demeanour,  when  the  bayonets  of  the 
ruffianly  deputation  were  pointed  at  his  breast  and  crossed  over  his 
head,  were  characterised  by  a  noble  calm  worthy  of  the  greatest  heroes 
of  antiquity.  God  grant  that  all  his  future  efforts  to  repel  unreason- 
able expectations  may  prove  as  successful  as  in  that  instance,  and  that 
the  eloquent  convictions  of  such  a  mind  may  aeain  and  again  awaken 
an  echo  in  the  rugged  bosoms  of  the  multitude!  But  misgivings  may 
be  pardoned  in  an  epoch  like  the  present ;  nor  can  we  forget,  while 
pondering  over  all  that  the  last  sixty  years  has  unrolled  in  this  agi- 
tated country,  during  the  great  process  of  political  regeneration,  what 
has  been  the  fate  of  its  purest  patriots.  In  modern  France  as  in 
ancient  Rome,  the  space  is  brief  from  the  Capitol  to  the  Tarpeian 
R^k! 

Paeis,  March  5, 1848. 


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387 

KIRDJALI ;  THE  BULGARIAN  BANDIT. 

A  TALE. 

FROM     THB    RUSSIAN     OF    PUSHKIN. 

BY  THOMAS  B.   SHAW^   B.  A. 

KiRDJALi  was  by  birth  a  Bulgarian.  Kirdjali^  in  the  Turkish 
language,  signifies  a  hero,  a  brave  warrior.  His  real  name  I  never 
knew.  Kirdjali,  at  the  head  of  his  band,  carried  terror  throughout 
the  whole  of  Moldavia.  In  order  to  give  some  idea  of  his  daring,  I 
will  relate  one  of  his  exploits.  One  night  he  and  the  Arnaut  Mik- 
hailaki  fell  single-handea  on  a  Bulgarian  village.  They  set  fire  to 
the  hamlet  in  two  places,  and  went  on  together  from  cottage  to  cot- 
tage. Kirdjali  cut  the  throats  of  all  he  met,  and  MikhaiMki  carried 
the  booty.  Both  shouted  ''  Kirdjali !  Kirdjali  1"  and  the  whole 
population  betook  themselves  to  flight. 

When  Alexander  Ipsilanti  was  agitating  the  general  revolt  against 
the  Turks,  and  had  begun  to  assemble  his  army,  Kirdjali  joined 
him  with  a  small  number  of  his  old  comrades.  The  real  object  of 
the  rising  was  but  imperfectly  known  to  these  guerillas ;  but  the 
war  presented  an  excellent  opportunity  for  them  to  enrich  them- 
selves at  the  expense  of  the  Turks,  and  perhaps  also  at  that  of  the 
Moldavians.  This  appeared  to  them  self-eviuent,  and  this  was  all 
they  cared  to  know. 

Af^er  the  battle  of  Skuli^ni,  the  Turks  remained  the  victors.  Mol- 
davia was  cleared  of  the  guerillas.  About  six  thousand  Amaiits  scat- 
tered themselves  over  Bessarabia :  though  not  knowing  how  to  find 
a  subsistence,  they  were  grateful  to  Russia  for  the  protection  she  af- 
forded them.  They  led  an  idle,  but  far  from  licentious  life.  They 
might  always  be  met  with  in  the  coffee-houses  of  the  half-Turkish 
Bessarabia,  with  lon^  chibouques  in  their  mouths,  sipping  the  dregs 
of  coffee  from  their  little  cups.  Their  embroidered  jackets  and  their 
red  sharp-pointed  slippers  were  already  beginning  to  look  rather 
'  worn-out  and  threadbare ;  but  the  tufted  skull-cap  was  still,  as  of 
old,  cocked  jauntily  aside,  and  ataghan  and  pistol  still  bristled  in 
their  broad  girdles.  None  of  them  were  ever  complained  of.  It 
seemed  incredible  that  these  poor,  inoffensive  fellows  could  ever 
have  been  the  famous  Klephts  of  Moldavia,  the  comrades  of  the 
terrible  Kirdjali,  and  that  he  himself  was  here  among  them. 

The  pasha  who  was  at  that  time  governor  of  Jassy,  obtained  in- 
telligence of  this  circumstance,  and  demanded,  as  a  basis  for  nego- 
ciations  for  peace,  the  surrender,  on  the  part  of  the  Russian  govern- 
ment, of  the  celebrated  brigand. 

The  police  began  to  institute  a  search.  It  was  ascertained  that 
Kirdjah  was  actually  residing  in  Kisheneff".  He  was  arrested  in  the 
house  of  a  runaway  monk,  in  the  evening,  as  he  was  at  supper, 
sitting  in  the  twilight  with  seven  of  his  comrades. 

Kirdjali  was  placed  under  a  guard.  He  did  not  attempt  to  con- 
ceal the  truth,  and  immediately  confessed  that  he  was  Kirdjali. 
"  But,"  added  he,  "  from  the  time  when  I  crossed  the  Pruth,  I  have 
never  touched  a  hair  of  any  man's  goods,  nor  harmed  the  meanest 


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338  KIRDJALL 

gipsy.  To  the  Turks^  to  the  Moldavians,  to  the  Vallachians,  I  am, 
in  truth,  a  robber ;  but  to  the  Russians  I  am  a  guest.  When 
Saphianos  had  fired  away  all  his  ammunition,  and  came  to  us  in  the 
quarantine,  to  collect  from  the  vounded  men  everything  he  could 
find  for  a  last  loading  for  our  guns, — ^buttons,  nails,  the  chains  and 
tassels  of  their  ataghans,  I  gave  him  twenty  sequins,  and  left  myself 
without  money.  God  sees  that  I, — I,  Kirdjah',  have  lived  on  alms! 
Wherefore,  then,  should  the  Russians  now  give  me  up  to  my  ene- 
mies ?*'  Afler  pronouncing  these  words,  iGrdjali  was  silent,  and 
began  calmly  to  await  the  decision  of  his  destiny. 

A  karutza  was  drawn  up  at  the  gate  of  the  prison,  in  the  year 
1821,  on  one  of  the  last  days  of  September.  Jewesses,  with  dieir 
sleeves  dangling  loose  and  their  slipshod  slippers  trailing  along  the 
ground;  Arnauts,  in  their  ragged  but  picturesque  costume;  tall 
Moldavian  women,  with  their  black- eyed  babies  in  their  arms; — all 
these,  in  a  motley  group,  surrounded  the  karutza.  The  men  pre- 
served a  complete  silence, — ^the  women  seemed  eagerly  expecting 
something  or  other. 

The  gates  opened,  and  a  number  of  police  officers  came  out  into 
the  street ;  they  were  followed  by  two  soldiers,  conducting  between 
them  Kirdjali,  chained. 

He  appeared  about  thirty  years  of  age.  The  features  of  his  tawny 
countenance  were  regular  and  severe.  He  was  of  lofty  stature, 
broad-shouldered,  exhibiting  every  sign  of  extraordinary  physical 
strength.  A  turban  of  various  colours  was  placed  slantingly  on  his 
head ;  his  slender  waist  was  encircled  by  a  broad  belt  of  shawl ;  a 
doliman  of  stout  dark-blue  cloth,  a  wide  and  thickly-plaited  shirt, 
falling  nearly  to  the  knee,  and  scarlet  slippers,  completed  his  cos- 
tume.    His  air  was  calm  and  proud. 

One  of  the  civil  officers,  a  red-faced  old  fellow,  in  a  faded  and 
threadbare  uniform,  to  which  still  dangled  three  remaining  buttons, 
having  pinched  between  the  arch  of  a  pair  of  pewter  spectacles  a 
purplish  nob,  which  represented  a  nose,  unfolded  a  paper,  and  hold- 
ing it  up  to  his  eye,  began  to  read  in  the  Moldavian  language. 
From  time  to  time  he  glanced  contemptuously  at  the  fettered  Kird- 
jali, who  was  apparently  the  subject  of  the  paper.  Kirdjali 
listened  to  him  with  attention.  The  civilian  finished  his  reading, 
folded  up  the  paper,  called  loudly  to  the  people,  ordering  them  to 
make  way,  and  commanded  the  karutza  to  be  brought  up.  Then 
Kirdjdli  turned  towards  him,  and  said  a  few  words  in  the  Mol- 
davian dialect ;  his  voice  trembled ;  he  changed  countenance ;  burst 
into  tears,  and  threw  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  officer  of  police,  his 
chains  clashing  as  he  fell.  The  police  officer,  struck  with  terror, 
scuttled  off;  the  soldiers  were  about  to  raise  Kirdjali,  but  he  got  up 
of  his  own  accord,  gathered  his  fetters  into  his  hand,  stepped  into 
the  karutza,  and  cried,  '^  Drive  on ! "  A  gendarme  seated  himself 
by  his  side,  the  Moldavian  cracked  his  whip,  and  the  karutza  rolled 
away. 

lurdj^li,  on  his  arrival  at  Jassy,  was  delivered  up  to  the  pasha, 
who  sentenced  him  to  be  impaled.  The  execution  was  deferred  to 
some  great  holiday  or  other.  In  the  meantime  he  was  shut  up  in 
a  dungeon.  The  duty  of  guarding  the  prisoner  was  confided  to  seven 
Turks  (men  of  rude  and  simple  habits,  and  at  heart,  to  a  certain 
d^^ee,  brigands  like  Kirdjali) ;  they  treated  him  with  respect,  and 


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KIRDJALI.  339 

listened^  with  the  greediness  so  universal  throughout  the  East,  to 
his  strange  and  wondrous  tales. 

It  was  not  long  before  a  secret  bond  of  fellowship  united  the 
guards  and  their  prisoner.  One  day  Kirdjali  said  to  them, — •*  Bro- 
thers !  my  hour  is  near.  No  man  can  escape  his  fate.  In  a  short 
time  I  shall  bid  ye  farewell.  I  should  like  to  leave  you  something 
as  a  keepsake."     The  Turks  pricked  up  their  ears. 

**  Brothers !"  continued  Kirdjali,  '*  three  years  ago,  when  I  robbed 
in  company  with  Mikhailake,  who  is  now  dead,  we  buried  in  the 
steppe,  not  far  from  Jassy,  a  great  iron  pot  full  of  piastres.  Appa- 
rently neither  I  nor  he  were  destined  to  enjoy  that  hoard.  So  be 
it !  CIO  you  dig  it  up,  and  share  it  among  ye  like  good  comrades." 

The  Turks  were  almost  crazy  with  delight.  Then  began  the 
arguments,  how  they  should  find  the  spot  in  which  the  treasure 
was  concealed.  They  meditated  and  discussed  the  matter  so  long, 
that  at  last  they  proposed  that  Kirdjali  himself  should  shew  them 
the  way. 

Night  came  on.  The  Turks  took  off  the  fetters  from  the  pri- 
soner's feet,  tied  his  hands  behind  him  with  a  rope,  and  the  wnole 
party  set  off  with  him  for  the  steppe. 

Kirdjali  led  them  on,  keeping  always  in  the  same  direction, 
from  one  hillock  to  another.  They  walked  onward  for  a  long 
time.  At  last  Kirdjali  stopped  at  a  broad  stone,  measured  out 
twelve  paces  towards  the  south,  stamped  with  his  foot,  and  cried — 
here. 

The  Turks  now  set  to  work.  Four  of  them  drew  their  ataghans, 
and  began  to  dig  up  the  earth.  The  three  others  stood  on  guard. 
Kirdjali  sat  down  on  the  stone,  and  began  to  look  at  them  as  they 
laboured. 

"  Well,  are  you  near  it  ?  "  he  inquired,  •'  have  you  got  down  to  it  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  replied  the  Turks,  toiling  on,  till  the  sweat  streamed 
from  them  like  rain. 

Kirdjali  began  to  show  signs  of  impatience. 

*'  What  a  set  of  fellows ! "  he  cried ;  "  they  can  *t  even  dig  up  a 
few  feet  of  earth !  If  I  set  about  it,  the  affair  would  be  done  in  a 
couple  of  minutes.  Come,  my  boys !  untie  my  hands  and  give  me 
an  ataghan."    The  Turks  hesitated,  and  began  to  consult  together. 

"  Well,"  said  they  at  last,  "  let 's  unbind  his  hands,  and  give  him 
an  ataghan.  What  harm  can  that  do  ?  We  are  seven  to  one."  And 
the  Turks  untied  his  hands,  and  gave  him  an  ataghan. 

At  last  Kirdjali  found  himself  once  more  a  free  man,  with  arms 
in  his  hands.  What  must  he  have  felt  at  such  a  moment !  He  be« 
ean  to  dig  with  great  activity ;  his  guards  helped  him.  Suddenly 
he  plunged  his  ataghan  into  the  body  of  one  of  them,  and  leaving 
the  weapon  sticking  in  the  Turk's  bosom,  he  snatched  a  brace  of 
pistols  from  the  falling  man's  belt. 

The  remaining  six,  seeing  Kirdjali  levelling  a  cocked  pistol  in 
each  hand,  took  to  their  heels. 

Kirdjali  is  now  once  more  a  brigand,  and  plunders  principally 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Jassy.  A  short  time  ago  he  wrote  a  letter 
to  the  hospodar,  demanding  nve  thousand  gold  piastres,  and  threat- 
ening,  in  case  of  non-payment,  to  set  fire  to  Jassy,  and  to  present 
himself  in  person  to  the  hospodar.  The  five  thousand  piastres  were 
sent  him. 


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340 


"  ARE  THERE  THOSE  WHO  READ  THE  FUTURE  r 

A  TI88UB   OlP  8TRANQB   0O1N0IDENCE8. 

BY  THB   AUTHOR  OF   '^  BXPBRIBNCB8  OF  A   GAOL   CHAPLAIN." 

^^  I  can't  say  she  was  an  agreeable  person :  for  in  society  her  main  aim  was  to 
appear  wiser  tnan  her  neighbours.*' 

Ladt  Mary  W.  MoktAGu'b  opinion  of  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  F-^i, 

In  a  sheltered  nook  of  fertile  Devon,  within  an  easy  drive  of 
Exeter,  and  a  pleasant  sail  of  Torquay,  lies  a  little  bustling  village — 
originally  a  cluster  of  fishers'  huts — whose  bold  coast,  firm  sands, 
and  gently  shelving  shore  proved  irresistible  recommendations  to 
public  favour.  The  straggbng  hamlet  of  Sunny  Bay  rose  rapidly 
into  a  much  frequented  watering-place.  To  it  flocked  the  infirm, 
the  feeble,  the  consumptive,  the  suffering  :  and  these,  ere  long,  were 
followed  by  the  idle,  and  the  jaded,  the  luxurious,  and  the  hypo- 
chondriacal. 

To  the  former  class,  the  invalids,  belonged  the  young  Due  de  la 
Miniac  de  Rohan,  who^  at  the  period  I  am  referring  to,  came  to 
Sunny  Bay  by  the  special  recommendation  of  a  whole  conclave  of 
physicians.  His  malady  was  consumption :  but  he  had  youth  and 
a  truly  happy,  equable,  contented  temper  on  his  side ;  and  the  most 
vigilant  ana  affectionate  of  nurses.  He  was  ordered  to  live  in  the 
saddle;  to  confine  himself  mainly  to  a  milk  diet;  to  be  at  least  a 
couple  of  hours  every  morning  on  the  sands ;  and  daily  to  luxuriate 
in  a  bevera|^e,  or  broth,  of  which  snails  were  the  main  ingredient  : 
and  for  which  horrible  staple  in  his  mid-day  meal  the  neighbouring 
gardens  were  laid  under  willing  contribution. 

Whether  from  the  soft,  genial  air  of  Devon,  or  from  horse-exer- 
cise, or  from  the  long  hours  passed  on  the  sunny  beach  fanned  the 
while  by  the  freshening  breeze,  or  from  the  strange  but  nourishing 
diet  so  peremptorily  prescribed  for  him,  and  so  steadily  abided  by, 
it  boots  not  now  to  say, — the  result  was  this :  the  Due  de  Rohan 
rallied.  The  hectic  spot  disappeared  from  his  cheek.  His  face  lost 
its  anxious  and  haggard  expression.  He  rode  with  greater  firmness 
and  spirit.  His  eye  looked  no  longer  dull  and  glassy.  And  the 
Sunny  Bay  people — with  whom,  from  his  gay  good  humour  and 
lavish  expenditure,  the  young  French  noble  was  a  favourite — thus 
expressed,  and  with  sincerity,  their  sentiments.  ''  For  his  own  sake 
we  wish  the  young  duke  may  get  right  well  again ;  but  for  ours  we 
hope  that  he  will  take  some  time  about  it  1" 

Where,  and  in  what  latitude,  dwell  disinterested  people  ?  Strange 
that  with  all  our  hopes  and  aspirations  Self  should  so  insensibly  and 
largely  mingle ! 

With  the  departure  of  the  duke's  household  from  Sunny  Bay,  all 
memory  of  their  sayings  and  doings  would  have  graduidly  faded, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  prolonged  sojourn  of  a  lady  who  seemed,  to 
a  certain  degree,  identified  with  the  foreign  visitant.  This  party 
had  come  into  Devonshire  at  the  express  wish  of  the  ladies  of  the 
duke's  family.  They  had  known  her  abroad ;  liked  her  society ; 
had  experienced  great  courtesy  at  her  hands,  and  pressed  her  to 
visit  them.    On  the  other  hand,  Hortense  de  Crespigny — such  was 


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WHO   READ  THE   FUTURE?  341 

the  fair  one's  name — had  no  settled  home.  '^All  countries  and 
domiciles/'  she  remarked,  ''are  alike  to  one  who  is  an  exile  for 
ever;  and  why  not  waste  what  remains  to  me  of  life  at  Sunny 
Bay?" 

What  might  remain  to  her  of  life  was  ''an  open"  and  "much  con- 
troverted" question.  No  two  gossips  could  agree  as  to  her  ase. 
By  some  Mademoiselle  de  Crespigny  was  pronounced  forty  ;  by 
others  five-and-twenty.  Her  country^  too,  afforded  matter  for  many 
a  wordy  war. 

The  elderlies  held  her  to  be  of  French  origin.  The  juniors  main- 
tained  her  to  be  an  Italian.  She  herself  observed  the  most  in- 
violable silence  as  to  her  birth-place,  connexions,  past  or  future 
residence.  She  was  an  accomplished  linguist;  could  converse  in 
five  languages ;  drew  rapidly  and  accurately  ;  and  sane ;  but — like 
the  beautiful  and  too  celebrated  Lady  Hamilton — declined  invari- 
ably an  accompaniment  "It  confused  her,"  was  her  remark; 
"  caused  her  to  forget  both  words  and  air."  But  the  quality  of  her 
voice  was  delicious ;  her  intonation  perfect ;  and  those  who  had  the 
good  fortune  to  hear  her  in  an  English  or  Spanish  ballad,  will  not 
easily  forget  the  witchery  of  her  tones. 

She  hi^  ample  means ;  was  not  disinclined  to  use  them ;  com- 
passionate and  fearless.  One  exhibition  of  her  courage  and  kindly 
feeling  established  for  her  an  ascendancy  among  the  poor,  who  in 
after  years  oflen  reverted  to  the  bold  heart  and  open  hand  of  the 
melancholy  Spanish  lady. 

A  very  poor  woman,  living  within  a  stone's  throw  of  Mr.  Stacey, 
the  flourisning  grocer  and  petty  banker  of  the  little  sea-port,  was 
seized  with  malignant  fever.  Two  nurses  who  had  gone  to  the 
assistance  of  the  sufferer,  had,  one  after  another,  caught  the  infec- 
tion, and  were  pronounced  past  recovery.  No  one  was  disposed  to 
succeed  them;  and  the  deserted  woman — she  had  four  fatherless 
children — seemed  doomed  to  perish  alone.  At  this  juncture  the 
foreigner  heard  of  the  case,  and  sought  fearlessly  the  bedside  of  the 
sufferer.  Watch  her,  hour  by  hour,  as  a  nurse,  she  did  noi.  But 
four  times  a  day  did  Hortense  de  Crespigny  present  herself  in  that 
squalid  dwelling.  She  gave  the  poor  delirious  creature  her  medi- 
cine ;  she  surrounded  her  with  comforts ;  she  shifted  her  uneasy 
pillow,  and  fumigated  her  close  and  unhealthy  chamber.  Nay, 
more.  At  the  crisis  of  the  disorder  the  generous  Hortense,  at  no 
light  cost,  summoned  Dr.  Luke  twice  from  Exeter,  on  purpose  to 
pUce  the  case  under  his  guidance.  The  widow — she  was  a  lace- 
maker — rallied;  and  when,  on  the  first  morning  of  recovered  reason 
she  saw  her  benefactress  bending  over  her  couch,  she  overwhelmed 
her  with  thanks  and  blessings,  and  prayed  that  she  might  live  long 
and  happily.  A  strange  expression  of  anguish  passed  over  Made- 
moiselle de  Crespigny's  face ;  and  she  checked  the  grateful  speaker 
with  the  hurried  exclamation,  "  No,  no  I  don't  pray  for  me  that  I 
may  live ;  but  pray — yes,  pray,  and  that  earnestly,  that  I  may  be 
permitted  to  die." 

Perhaps  this  morbid  and  devouring  melancholy  will  explain  her 
long  solitary  rambles  by  the  shore.  Watching  the  ceaseless  throb 
of  ocean,  she  would  remain  for  hours  on  the  hissing  beach,  heedless 
of  the  blast  and  the  spray.  She  said  the  waves  spoke  to  her, — spoke 
to  her  of  the  future,— spoke  to  her  of  the  past.    She  maintained  that 

VOL.  xxiii.  c  c 


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342  ARE  THBBE  THOSE 

to  her  miiid  the  great  deep  mirrored  the  Impikitb  and  thb  Etba- 
NAL,  and  that  the  billows^  as  they  burst  m  rapid  succession  on  the 
shore,  had  each  for  her  a  language  and  a  lesson,  and  bore  tidings  of 
the  dead  and  the  distant,  the  lost  and  the  loved. 

Of  the  stars,  her  notions  were  to  the  full  as  wild  and  dreamy. 
After  a  lengthened  gaze  at  the  studded  henusphere  on  a  bright  and 
glorious  night,  she  burst  forth  :— 

"  The  stars  are  talking  together,  as  happily  and  harmoniously,  as 
on  the  first  morning  of  creation,  fulfilling,  with  unutterable  gladness, 
their  mighty  Maker's  will,  nor  dreading  nor  desiring  to  shun  the 
hour  when  they  must  fall  from  their  courses !  *' 

Of  necessity,  her  religious  views  were  speedly  pronounced  faulty, 
and  it  was  hinted  that  she  thought  much  more  about  the  sea  and 
stars  than  a  sober-minded  christian  ought  to  do. 

**  Perhaps,"  said  she,  in  reply,  '*  my  creed  is  not  so  fully  matured 
as  it  should  be.  In  truth,  I  feel  that  I  have  much  to  learn :  but 
what  is  it  which  you  here  teadi  me  ?  What  do  I  see  at  Sunny  Bay  ? 
An  aged  minister,  Mr.  Winton,  has  the  misfortune  to  differ  slightly 
with  some  of  his  hearers.  They  instantly  leave  him,  turn  their 
backs  on  Glenorchy  Chapel,  and  run  up  a  hideous  brick  building 
behind  the  Beacon,  in  wnich  they  congregate,  and  call  their  house 
of  assembly  '  Thb  Littlb  Rbvbnob  ;'  a  strange  name,  surely,  for 
a  place  decUcated  to  the  worship  of  thb  Supbbmb  !  Again,  in  the 
church,  poor  old  Mr.  Rhymer,  a  most  inoffensive  being,  makes  use 
of  two  or  three  unguarded  expressions  in  an  ill-considered  sermon. 
He  is  denounced  to  his  bishop ;  cited  in  the  spiritual  court ;  sus- 
pended ;  takes  to  his  bed  and  dies  of  a  broken  heart  My  creed,  I 
daresaj^,  is  imperfect,  but  it  tells  me  this,— to  lone — to  forbeav'-^and 
to  for  give  J* 

'*A  rank  heretic!"  cried  Mrs.  Chapman  of  The  Globe,— -an 
enormously  stout  woman,  and  an  unquestionable  authority  in  the 
hamlet,—- '<  a  rank  heretic !  and  if  she  had  but  lived  in  good  old 
Bishop  Bonner's  days,  I,  for  one,  know  what  would  have  b^me  of 
her!" 

Nor  was  this  the  only  point  on  which  public  propriety, — ^marvel- 
lously sensitive  at  Sunny  Bay  !— felt  itself  scandalized. 

It  soon  transpired, — how  or  by  what  means  I  cannot  now  recal,— * 
that  this  extraordinary  woman  read  the  future.  This  last  expres- 
non  is,  perhaps,  un  pen  irop  fort  I  and  should  be  softened  down 
into  ''guessed"  at  what  was  approaching,  and  all  her  ''  hits"  be  de- 
siffnat^  as  so  many  fortunate  coincidences.  The  reader  must  take 
which  version  soever  he  pleases. 

Her  first  essay  was  in  connexion  with  a  youthful  son  of  Admiral 
(then  Captain)  Carpenter.  The  captain  was  afloat,  and  a  house  on 
the  Parade — ^not  far  from  Miss  Langford's  library — was  occupied  by 
his  lady  and  her  young  family.  It  numbered  among  its  members  a 
very  intelligent,  shrewd,  restless  boy,  full  of  life  and  hope,  of  pecu- 
liarly frank  and  winning  manners,  and  of  whom  the  fondest  expec- 
tations were  formed  by  those  around  him. 

"  That  boy  will  cut  a  brilliant  figure  in  after  life,"  was  the  re- 
mark of  a  gentleman  who  had  been  captivated  with  his  apt  but 
courteous  answers ;  **  we  shall  hear  of  him  by  the  time  he 's  tnirty." 

Miss  de  Crespigny  looked  at  the  lad  steadily,  and  then  slowly 
murmured,  to  the  amazement  of  those  who  listened : — 


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WHO  READ  TBE  FUTURE?  843 

"  He  will  never  live  to  be  thirty:  he  will  never  live  to  be  twenty : 
he  will  never  enter  his  teens.  £arly  doomed  1  early  doomed !  Poor 
feUow ! 

At  this  outbreak  the  preceding  speaker  looked  thoroughly  aghast. 
He  timidlpr  confronted  the  sibyl ;  observed  her  intently  for  some 
seconds,  his  face  the  while  becoming  momentarily  paler  and  longer^ 
and  his  eye  growii^  wilder.  At  length  he  rose,  and  with  a  voice 
anything  but  firm,  ejaculated, — 

*'  Don't  know  what  to  make  of  this  I  Odd !  very  odd !  Some* 
thing  in  it  I  can 't  fathom.  Must  shift  my  ouarters.  Shall  hear 
something  not  very  palatable  about  my  own  aoom  if  I  stay  mudi 
longer," 

The  old  gentleman  here  gasped  horribly  once  or  twice,  like  a  fish 
in  extremis,  and  then  with  a  bound,  bolted. 

Some  six  or  eight  weeks  after  this  scene,  a  rumour,  late  one  even- 
ing,  ran  through  Sunny  Bay,  that  the  coroner  had  been  summoned 
to  hold  an  inquest  on  young  Carpenter,  who  was  killed.  At  first 
the  report  was  treated  with  indifference.  It  was  deemed  too  impro- 
bable to  be  correct.  But  on  inquiry  the  melancholy  tidings  were 
found  to  be  too  true.  It  appeared  that  the  fearless  boy  had  pe- 
rished the  victim  of  his  own  rashness. 

It  was  given  in  evidence,  that,  profiting  by  his  mother's  ab- 
sence, and  the  occupation  of  an  aged  French  governess  who  was 
engaged  elsewhere  with  his  sisters,  he  had  once  more  indulged  his 
favourite  and  forbidden  freak,  that  of  sliding  down  hy^  the  balus- 
trade from  the  third  to  the  basement  story.  It  was  conjectured,  in 
the  absence  of  all  proof,  that  from  some  cause  he  had  swerved  in 
his  descent,  overbalanced  himself,  and  fellen  headlong. 

A  sad  and  tragic  end  for  one  so  engaging  and  so  loved ! 

Time  rolled  away,  but  left  uneffac^  Uie  singular  conversation 
which  had  preceded  little  Carpenter's  demise.  This  ere  long  reached 
the  ears  of  a  party  then  residing  at  Sunny  Bay,  remarkable  alike  for 
her  sorrows,  and  the  uncomplaining  spirit  m  which  she  sustained 
them — ^Viscountess  Nelson,  widow  of  the  hero  of  Trafalgar  How- 
ever bright  may  be  the  lustre  which  distinguished  services  tiirow 
around  the  memory  of  Lord  Nelson, — however  conspicuous  his 
name  may  stand  on  the  roll  of  fame  as  a  successful  naval  com- 
mander,— there  is  in  his  private  life  much  to  condemn  and  deplore. 
He  was  a  most  unfiuthful  husband  to  a  generous  and  confiding 
woman,— he  was  a  most  careless  protector  of  one  who  loved  him 
fondly  and  truly,— who  linked  her  fate  with  his  when  he  was  poor 
and  comparatively  unknown, — who  was  spotless  in  her  own  charac- 
ter and  conduct,  and  whose  life  his  indifference,  ingratitude,  and 
neglect,  steeped  in  unimaginable  bitterness.  She^ — the  victim- 
lived  in  comparative  neglect  and  obscurity.  He — ^the  wrong-doer 
—basked  in  the  full  smile  of  public  favour.  Oh  world !  thou  su- 
perficial and  rash  judge!  how  strangely  and  partially  dost  thou 
mete  out  thy  penalties !  Suffering  and  obloquy  to  the  weak,  im- 
punity and  triumph  to  the  strong  ;  always  disposed  to  lean  to  the 
defying  and  the  daring ;  always  disposed  to  crush  the  feeble  and 
the  smitten ;  ever  hasty  in  thv  conclusions ;  ever  careless  of  the 
misery  they  mav  entail  I  Well  is  it  that  thy  awards  are  not  eternal ! 
Well  IS  it  that  there  is  another  and  dread  court  of  appeal  to  reverse 
thy  unjust  and  unnatural  decisions ! 

c  c  2 


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344  ARE  THERE   THOSE 

Of  Nelson  it  may  be  said  that  his  slavish  subserviency  to  the 
meretricious  arts  of  an  unprincipled  woman — the  wife  of  another — 
is  matter  of  history.  That  Lady  Hamilton  should  spare  no  art,  no 
allurement,  no  blandishment,  to  detain  so  renowned  a  captive  in 
thrall  is  in  perfect  keeping  with  her  character.  But  that  the  hero 
of  the  Nile  should  openly  treat  with  the  utmost  consideration  and 
affection  a  wanton — snould  honour  her  as  though  she  bore  his  name 
— should  set  all  public  decency  at  defiance — should  practically  pro- 
claim his  thorough  contempt  of,  and  indifference  to,  the  sacredness 
of  the  marriage  vow,  and  leave  his  uncomphiining,  unoffending,  and 
irreproachable  wife  to  the  whisper,  and  tne  surmise,  and  the  sneer 
of  the  world — is  a  stain  which  his  most  devoted  eulogist  must  regret. 
His  fame  as  a  hero  remains.  But  in  dwelling  on  his  private  life, 
marvellously  diminished  is  the  respect  which  we  would  fain  bear  him 
as  a  man. 

But  Lady  Nelson  loved  him — loved  him  in  spite  of  long  years  of 
indifference  and  desertion — cherished  his  fame — ^was  proud  of  his 
exploits — tried  to  forget  past  neglect,  and  to  recall  only  that  period 
in  her  life  when  he  was  the  attached  and  devoted  husband.  Anxious 
beyond  measure  was  she  to  ascertain  whether  at  the  last  he  remem- 
bered her ;  was  sensible  of  the  injustice  he  had  done  her ;  and  had 
written  or  spoken  au^ht  indicative  of  reviving  affection. 

To  this  end,  and  with  special  reference  to  Hortense  de  Crespigny, 
she  had  again  and  again  consulted  Mrs.  Marianne  Stark — ^the  cele- 
brated tourist — then  a  resident  with  her  aged  mother  at  Sunny  Bay. 
Now  Mrs.  Marianne  Stark — ^profanely  called  by  the  multitude  **  Jack 
Stark "  from  her  predilection  in  favour  of  a  man's  hat  and  riding 
habit,  which  formed  her  usual  attire — viewed  the  reserved  and 
melancholy  foreigner  with  unmitigated  abhorrence. 

Not  content  with  deriding  her  pretensions,  and  designating  her  as 
an  impostor,  Mrs.  Starke  charged  the  unfortunate  Hortense  with 
treasonable  designs. 

"  Avoid  her.  Lady  Nelson," — so  ran  Mrs.  Stark's  diatribe— *' avoid 
her  as  you  would  infamy.  She  can  tell  you  nothing.  She  is  an  un- 
principled charlatan.  Nay,  more,  she  is  a  spy.  How  comes  it,— 
for  though  I  am  whollv  indifferent  in  a  general  wa^  to  the  sayings 
and  doings  of  my  neighbours,  I  have  made  myself  mistress  of  hers — 
how  comes  it  that  she  receives  no  letters  }  Whence  happens  it  that, 
though  continually  writing,  she  posts  none  through  the  Sunny  Bay 
office,  but  takes  them  herself  to  Exeter,  and  despatches  them  from 
thence  ?  A  journey  of  twenty  miles  to  post  a  letter !  whence  this 
precaution  }  Why  this  reserve  ?  Where  there  is  mystery  there  is 
iniquity.  She 's  a  spy :  and  is  at  this  very  moment,  such  is  my  firm 
conviction,  under  government  surveillance.  Have  nothing  to  do  with 
her.  She  can  tell  you  nothing  that  has  reference  to  the  late  Lord 
Nelson.   How  should  she  }   She  does  not  know  him  even  by  name." 

**  Miss  de  Crespigny,"  remarked  the  viscountess,  with  stately  dig- 
nity, **  is  a  well  read  and  intelligent  woman." 

'*  She's  a  desperately  wicked  one:"  said  Mrs.  Stark,  pointedly. 

**  She  must  have  heard  of  my  late  husband's  exploits,"  rejoined  her 
ladyship,  proudly :  "  thetf  are  familiar  to  every  tongue." 

**  As  notorious,  ere  many  months  are  over,  will  be  Mademoiselle 
de  Crespigny's :  take  care  that  among  them  is  not  included  some 
cleverly  contrived  fraud  on  Viscountess  Nelson," 


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WHO  READ  THE   FUTURE?  345 

"  I  do  not  fear  her." 

**  The  bravado  to  a  letter  in  which  the  Duke  of  York  indulged 
touching  Mrs.  Mary  Anne  Clark.  See  by  Thursday's  debates  to 
what  extent  that  virtuous  lady  has  damaged  the  duke's  character. 
Can  yoti  touch  pitch  without  being  defiled  ?  " 

"  And  your  advice  is  ?" 

"Shun  her." 

And  this  advice  being  counter  to  her  own  previous  determination^ 
the  widowed  viscountess  heard,  and  forthwitn  disobeyed. 

An  interview  was  speedily  arranged  at  the  foreigner's  cottage: 
and  early,  on  a  bleak  and  gusty  morning.  Lady  Nelson  might  have 
been  seen  wending  her  way  towards  Shepherd's  Walk. 

The  usual  greetings  over,  and  her  visitor  appearing  unable  or  un- 
willing to  announce  her  errand,  Hortense  led  the  way  by  an  enquiry. 

''  Your  ladyship  wished  to  see  me  on  a  matter  of  a  private  nature^ 
fnay  I  venture  to  ask  its  object?" 

"  It  relates  mainly  to  myself:"  was  the  reply. 

''  Command  me :  I  listen." 

A  pause  of  some  moments  took  place  before  the  widowed  lady 
broke  silence. 

•*  Referring  to-to-to  your  extraordinary  and  acknowledged  powers, 
did  " — was  her  question  put  with  moistened  eye  and  quivering  lip — 
*'  did  Lord  Nelson  make  any, — ^the  slightest  mention  of  me  in  Sie  last 
few  days  of  his  life?" 

"  He  did  not." 

*'  Was  I  wholly  forgotten  ?"  was  the  next  inquiry  shrieked  rather 
than  uttered :  so  great  was  the  emotion  with  which  it  was  accom* 
panied. 

''No :  a  letter  was  written  to  you  some  eight  days  before  he  went 
into  action." 

**  I  never  received  it,"  was  Lady  Nelson's  response :  ''  no,  believe 
me,  I  never  received  it." 

''  Is  it  likely  that  it  should  have  been  permitted  to  reach  your 
hands?"  returned  the  foreigner  in  her  usual  calm,  impassive,  tones. 

"  Its  tenor?  oh  I  let  your  answer  be  quick — ^its  tenor?"  cried  the 
widowed  peeress  anxiously. 

"  Kind,  respectful,  and  affectionate  in  the  highest  degree." 

**  Could  I  but  credit  this ! "  said  Lady  Nelson,  earnestly :  ''  could 
I  but  credit  this !  how  it  would  soothe  a  heart  riven  with  regrets !" 

''Why  should  your  ladyship  seek  me,  may  I  ask," — said  the 
foreigner  abruptly  and  sternly — "  unless  you  credit  me  ?  This  in- 
terview is  not  of  nty  proposing." 

"  True,"  return^  the  elder  lady :  "  true ;  I  do  credit  you  :  but  I 
have  friends  who — ^who— " 

"  Represent  me  as  an  impostor  and  a  charlatan,  Mrs.  Stark  among 
the  rest.  I  am  thoroughly  conversant  with  their  insinuations:  but 
I  disdain  answering  her  or  them.  Will  jour  ladyship,  for  a  brief 
moment,  listen  to  me?  You  shall  yourself  test  the  truth  of  what  I 
am  now  asserting." 

"  How  ?"  And  the  colour  forsook  her  lips  as  if  the  fears  of  the 
woman  predominated,  and  she  dreaded  some  exhibition  of  super- 
natural power. 

**  I  have  understood,"  resumed  the  other  without  noticing  the  emo- 
tion of  her  companion, "  that  you  regard  Sunny  Bay  as  your  home?". 


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346   ARE  THERE  THOSE  WHO  READ  THE  FUTURE? 

"  I  shall  live  and  die  here,"  was  Lady  Nelson*8  answer.  **  I  am 
attached  to  this  little  seaport ;  oh,  yes ;  much  and  deeply  attached 
to  it.  Its  quiet  calms  me.  Its  retirement  screens  me.  In  Sunny 
Bay  less  observation  is  attracted  to  my  sad,  sad  history.  Yes,  here 
I  shall  pass  the  remainder  of  my  days." 

''A  portion  of  them,"  returned  the  foreigner  emphatically;  ''a 
portion  of  them.  The  quiet  so  grateful  to  you  will  not  always  be 
your's.  You  will  witness  a  frightful  contest. — ^you  will  be  present 
at  a  revolution." 

"  Impossible !  with  my  habits  and  predilections !— quite  impos- 
sible." 

'*  You  will  be,"  resumed  the  other,  in  a  low  but  authoritative 
tone,  "  in  the  very  midst  of  the  fray,  and  be  surrounded  with  all  its 
horrors.  And  that  day — ^mark  me  well — will  be  one  of  the  most 
bitter  and  agonizing  of  your  chequered  life." 

"  Am  I  then  to  perish  by  violence?" 

'*  No ;  not  a  hair  of  your  head  will  be  injured." 

"  And  yet  that  day  will  be  one  of  sorrow  and  suffering  ?"  said  her 
ladyship,  musingly. 

"Of  agony,*'  was  the  reply;  'intense  and  unmitigated.  And 
when  it  dawns,  as  it  assuredly  will,"— the  triumph  with  which  this 
remark  was  uttered  was  remarkable — "  I  do  not  ask  your  ladyship 
to  think  of  me  and  to  credit  me ;  the  seene  around  you  and  your  own 
heart  miU  compel  you  to  do  both  i"  A  low  mocking  laugh  dlosed  the 
sentence. 

The  great  hero's  widow  seemed  paralyzed.  Lost  in  thought  she 
eyed  her  companion  in  silence  for  some  moments ;  and  the  quiver- 
ing of  her  lips  and  the  tremulous  motion  of  her  head,  shewed  that 
she  was  deeply  moved.  Replying  to  her  look,  Hortense  said  calmly 
and  proudly,  ''I  will  not  detain  your  ladyship  longer:  I  have 
done." 

'*  Oh,"  exclaimed  the  peeress,  her  usual  self-possession  overborne 
by  the  firmness  and  decision  of  her  companion,  "  oh,  in  mercy,  be 
more  explicit." 

**  I  have  done." 

''  A  few  words  of  explanation — only  a  few — a  single  sentence." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  add." 

^*  But  hear  me — pray  hear  me ;  can  no  persuasion — ^no  induce- 
ment— no  pecuniary  consideration  be  suggested  which  would  in- 
fluence you  ?  I  have  means,  ample  means ;  these  I  should  scruple 
not  to  use  if—" 

"  You  mistake  me  altogether,"  interposed  Hortense,  coldly  and 
proudly ;  *'  my  wants  are  fully  supplied.  I  have  nothing  to  wish, — 
nothing  to  ask, — nothing  to  receive  from  human  being.  I  desire 
neither  countenance  nor  sympathy  from  my  kind." 

'*  Is  there  nothing  I  can  offer  ?"  persisted  her  generous  and  gentle 
hearted  visitor. 

"  Our  interview  is  ended,"  was  the  reply :  and  with  frigid  cour- 
tesy Hortense  conducted  Lady  Nelson  from  her  humble  apartment. 


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347 


PARA;  OR,  SCENES  AND  ADVENTURES  ON  THE 
BANKS  OP  THE  AMAZON. 

BY  J.  B.   WABBBN. 

Regions  immense,  unsearchable,  unknown. 

Bask  in  the  splendour  of  the  torrid  zone.— Montoomert. 

C9APTEB   Til. 

««  Fetta  dea  Ossot.*'— «^Festa  de  Espirito  Santo.**— Ash  Wednesday.  —  Palm 
.  Sunday.— Early  Mom  in  the  City. — A  magnificent  Promenade. — The  Foundling 
Hospital. — Its  pernicious  Influence. — A  Romantic  Ruin  in  the  Forest. — Ves- 
tiges of  the  Revolution. — View  of  the  City. — "  Dia  de  Intrudo,"  or  Intruding 
Day. 

Thb  most  mysterious  of  the  different  festivals  of  Para  is  the 
Festa  dos  Ossos,  or  festival  of  bones.  This  singular  celebration,  at 
we  understood,  was  not  of  annual  occurrence,  but  only  transpired 
ODce  in  a  certain  number  of  years.  It  is  in  ccmimemoration  of  some 
distinguished  padre,  bishop,  or  pope,  but  on  what  particular  account, 
we  unfortunately  never  ascertained.  Our  notice  of  it,  therefore, 
must  be  confined  to  a  brief  account  of  the  festa  itself,  without  any 
reference  whatever  to  its  origin. 

On  the  day  of  its  observance,  the  cathedral  is  brilliantly  illuminated 
with  lighted  candles,  which  are  kept  burning  from  morning  until 
night.  In  the  centre  of  the  church  a  monumental  platform  is  erected 
especially  for  this  occasion,  which  is  overhung  by  a  dark  tapestry  of 
expensive  material,  embroidered  along  its  margin  with  gold  and 
silver  fringe.  Upon  this  mausoleum  is  placed  an  immense  coffin, 
containing  perhaps  the  ashes  of  the  illustrious  dead!  This  is 
shrouded  with  a  rich  drapery  of  black  crape,  hanging  down  in  pro- 
fuse folds  on  either  side. 

During  the  day  the  cathedral  is  filled  with  persons  who  come  to 
gaze  upon  this  strange  spectacle,  and  to  render  homage  to  the  con- 
secrated shrine  of  the  departed ! 

About  dusk,  a  body  of  penitents,  dressed  in  the  coarsest  garments, 
repair  to  the  burying-ground  of  the  poor,  where  they  disinter  a 
quantity  of  bones  which  they  bring  with  them  into  the  city.  Form- 
ing themselves  into  a  procession,  they  march  along  through  the 
streets  of  the  city  in  regular  file,  each  one  of  them  bearing  a  blazing 
torch  in  one  hand,  and  a  naked  bone  in  the  other.  Should  a  stranger 
accidentaUy  meet  this  spectral  procession  in  some  unfrequented 
avenue,  he  would  almost  be  led  to  believe  that  he  had  encountered 
a  party  of  cannibals  returning  from  some  horrid  rite,  or  feast  of 
human  flesh. 

Having  arrived  at  the  cathedral,  the  penitents  enter,  and  a  religious 
ceremony  is  performed.  This  being  concluded,  each  one  ascends 
the  platform  and  casts  his  bone  into  the  coffin.  A  hymn  follows — 
then  prayer— and  this  wonderful  festival  is  ended !  * 

Another  of  the  festivals  is  in  honour  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  is 
styled  the  "  Festa  de  Espirito  Santo."    It  is  in  every  respect  the  op« 

*  We  may  here  properly  remark,  that  we  ourselves  did  not  witness  this  strange 
festival,  but  received  our  information  from  a  friend,  upon  whose  veracity,  however, 
we  think  we  can  confidently  rely. 


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348  paea;  or, 

posite  of  the  preceding,  being  characterized  by  extreme  hikrity  and 
animation.  A  lofty  pole  is  erected  in  one  of  the  church  squares,  the 
summit  of  which  is  ornamented  with  a  picture,  representing  the 
Holy  Spirit  descending  in  the  form  of  a  dove,  which  is  hung  around 
with  green  wreaths  and  garlands  of  flowers.  A  gorgeous  procession 
parades  the  streets  in  the  morning,  led  by  a  fine  band,  and  distin- 
guished by  the  great  number  of  its  splendid  images,  which  are  car- 
ried on  platforms,  profusely  strewed  with  bouquets  of  the  brightest 
flowers.  In  the  afternoon  services  are  held  in  the  Church  of  the 
Trinity,  which  is  tastefully  decked  with  evergreens  for  the  occasion. 
In  the  evening  there  is  a  public  display  of  fire-works  in  the  area  in 
front  of  the  church,  and  a  general  illumination  throughout  the  d^. 
Every  one  appears  to  take  a  peculiar  interest  in  this  day,  which  is, 
I  believe,  universally  observed  in  all  the  provinces  of  the  empire. 

Ash  Wednesday  is  also  a  very  gay  day.  The  procession  on  this 
occasion  is  distinguished  by  the  great  number^f  its  images,  which 
sometimes  exceeds  twenty  or  even  thirty.  Before  the  images, 
beautiful  little  girls,  with  wings  on  their  shoulders,  trip  along, 
sportively  scattering  flowers  upon  the  path.  These  are  intended  as 
representatives  of  the  angels,  and  none  others  could  have  been  more 
appropriately  selected  for  the  purpose. 

On  Palm  Sunday,  which  is  celebrated  in  all  parts  of  Brazil,  the 
display  of  palm  branches  is  very  extensive.  The  churches  are  hung 
with  them — the  people  ornament  their  persons  with  their  curious 
leaves — and  as  the  procession  passes  through  the  streets,  ladies 
standing  out  on  the  balconies,  throw  down  flowers  and  branches  of 
palms,  until  the  ground  is  literally  covered  with  them. 

The  morning  after  our  departure  ft'om  the  Roscenia  de  Nazare, 
we  were  awakened  at  an  unusually  early  hour  by  the  discordant 
chiming  of  the  church  bells,  whose  uproar  broke  upon  our  slumbers 
with  startling  vehemence.  The  custom  of  bell  ringing  is  prevalent 
in  all  Catholic  countries,  but  it  is  carried  to  an  unbounded  excess 
at  Para, — from  four  in  the  morning,  until  the  hour  of  sunset,  they 
keep  up  a  perpetual  jargon,  such  as  habit  can  alone  render  familiar, 
or  familiarity  endurable  I 

At  six  o'clock  precisely,  we  took  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  at  nine  sat 
down  to  a  delicious  breakfast,  consisting  of  stewed  beef  and  but- 
tered toast,  together  with  tea  and  chocolate.  We  then  started  out  to 
take  a  snuff  of  the  pure  air,  as  well  as  a  stroll  among  the  quiet  en- 
yirons  of  the  city. 

Passing  slowly  through  the  streets  of  the  town,  we  at  length  ar- 
rived at  a  beautiful  promenade,  called  the  Estrada  dat  Man^a-- 
heiras.  This  is  a  well  laid  out  and  magnificent  highway,  running 
from  north  to  south,  along  the  western  suburbs  of  the  city,  and 
extending  from  the  marine  arsenal,  to  the  **  largo  da  Polvora." 

It  is  skirted  on  either  side  with  lofty  mangabeira  trees,  which 
stand  within  ten  feet  or  more  from  each  other,  in  regular  rows, 
forming  a  green  arch  overhead  with  their  bending  branches.  Being 
the  finest  road  in  the  vicinity  of  the  city,  considerable  care  is  taken 
to  keep  it  in  excellent  order.  A  more  beautiful  promenade,  I  think 
I  never  saw. 

Pursuing  our  walk  along  this  charming  highway,  we  diverged 
from  our  course  to  visit  the  hospital  of  S.  Jose.  This  establishment 
was  in  former  times  used  as  a  kind  of  convent,  but,  like  many  insti- 


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ADVENTURES  ON  THE  AMAZON.         349 

tutions  of  a  similar  character,  it  has  of  late  years  been  converted 
into  an  institution  of  more  practical  utility.  A  botanical  garden 
was  commenced  many  years  ago  on  the  extensive  grounds  connected 
with  the  hospital,  but  owing  to  a  deficiency  of  energy  and  public 
spirit  on  the  part  of  its  projectors,  the  plan  was  soon  abandoned, 
and  no  attempt  has  been  since  made  to  restore  it. 

Near  to  this  place  is  the  recoUmerUo  of  orphan  girls.  This  is 
an  institution  for  the  maintenance  of  female  infants,  selected  for 
the  most  part  from  the  large  number  of  those  deposited  at  the 
Foundling  Hospital.  This  latter  establishment  is  for  the  conve. 
nience  of  those  who  are  not  able,  or  who  do  not  wish,  to  take  charge 
of  their  own  children.  The  building  is  provided  with  a  huge 
wheel,  occupying  the  place  of  a  window,  half  of  which  is  exposed, 
while  the  other  half  is  within  the  building.  The  wheel  is  supplied 
with  four  cradles,  one  of  which  is  always  visible  from  without. 
Whenever  a  parent  wishes  to  get  rid  of  his  child, — which  is  gene- 
rally the  case  when  it  is  illegitimate, — all  he  or  she  has  to  do,  is  to 
take  the  child  in  the  evening  and  put  it  in  one  of  the  cradles  of  the 
wheel.  A  semi-revolution  then  conveys  it  immediately  within  the 
house,  where  it  is  taken  care  of  for  the  future.  A  considerable  portion 
of  the  infants  disposed  of  in  this  inhuman  manner  are  the  children 
of  slaves ;  all  that  survive  are  ever  afler  free.  This  is  the  chief  in- 
centive to  the  sacrifice.  If  this  was  the  only  evil  consequence  of 
such  an  institution,  it  might  be  overlooked,  in  consideration  of  the 
benefit  that  would  accrue  in  the  gradual  extinction  of  slavery  ;  but 
this  is  not  the  case,  for  no  one  can  doubt  but  that  it  offers  serious 
encouragement  to  licentiousness,  besides  it  has  a  tendency  to  re- 
move from  the  minds  of  the  profligate  all  fear  of  restraint  in  the 
prosecution  of  their  sinful  purposes,  and  to  break  down  the  bul- 
warks of  society,  by  destroying  in  a  great  measure  that  legitimate 
union  of  the  sexes  which  is  absolutely  essential  to  the  welfare  and 
prosperity  of  any  nation  or  country.  It  is  astonishing  how  an  in- 
stitution of  this  character  should  be  tolerated  even  in  Brazil,  when 
the  evil  results  are  so  palpably  manifest  to  all.  We  sincerely  trust 
that  before  many  years  it  will  sink  beneath  the  influence  of  a  more 
enlightened  legislation,  never  to  rise  again ! 

With  this  r^ection  we  will  proceed  with  our  walk. 

As  the  heat  of  the  summer  was  now  very  powerful,  we  sought 
relief  in  the  refreshing  shades  of  the  forest.  Wending  our  way 
through  a  green  tunnel  of  fantastic  foliage,  we  shortly  emer- 
ged from  its  cooling  twilight  into  the  open  grounds  of  a  wild  and 
neglected  garden.  In  the  midst  of  the  clear  space,  surrounded 
by -an  almost  impassable  wall  of  low  bushes,  and  overhung  with  gay 
festoons  of  flowering  vines,  was  a  stone  mansion  of  noble  propro- 
tions,  half  demolished  by  the  ravages  of  time,  yet  solemn  and  inter- 
esting even  in  its  mournful  decay.  Gay  spirits  had  once  inhabited 
that  lone  dwelling,  but  they  have  long  since  gone ;  the  tinkling  of 
merry  music  no  longer  resounds  along  its  deserted  corridors ;  the 
revelry  of  the  joyous  dance  no  more  breaks  upon  the  stillness  of  the 
surrounding  wilderness,  and  the  house  itself,  like  its  former  pro- 
prietors, is  rapidly  "  passing  away."  Some  twenty  or  thirty  years 
ago,  Spix  and  v  on  Martins,  two  eminent  German  naturalists,  spent 
several  weeks  at  this  romantic  spot,  in  whose  near  vicinity  they 
succeeded  in  collecting  a  variety  of  rare  specimens,  both  of  insects. 


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350  para;  or, 

and  plants^  and  birds.  They  could  not  have  selected  a  location 
more  convenient  for  their  laudable  purposes  than  this,  any  where 
within  the  neighbourhood  of  the  city,  and  it  was  this  fact  that  in« 
duced  them  to  take  up  their  abode  there,  in  defiance  of  its  dilapi* 
dated  condition,  and  the  numerous  tenants,  in  the  way  of  bats  and 
reptiles,  that  were  accustomed  to  frequent  its  moss-grown  and  tot* 
tering  walls. 

Having  f^ucked  a  few  choice  flowers,  and  picked  up  some  curious 
shells  which  we  found  crawling  about  the  walls  of  the  majestic 
ruin,  we  dashed  once  more  into  the  forest,  and  commenced  retra- 
cing our  steps  towards  the  city.  In  less  than  an  hour  we  were  again 
seated  in  one  of  the  front  apartments  of  Mr.  Campbell's  spacious 
house,  looking  down  upon  the  moving  throng  beneath  us,  and 
chatting  £Euniliarly  on  the  different  specUdes  as  they  severally  met 
our  eye. 

Among  the  passers  by  we  noticed  a  man  of  wonderful  corpulency 
jogging  slowly  through  the  street,  while  with  one  hand  he  was 
wiping  away  the  thick  drops  of  perspiration  that  had  gathered  on 
his  massive  brow.  '<  That  man,"  said  a  gentleman  present,  "  has 
had  three  wives"  "Three  wives!"  ejaculated  a  merry  Scotch- 
man at  our  elbow,  "by  heavens  1  he  looks  as  if  he  had  eaten  them 
alL" 

Many  of  the  houses  in  the  city  stiU  bear  marks  of  the  late  dis- 
turbances. That  of  Mr.  Norris,  an  intellig^dt  and  hospitable  Ame- 
rican merchant,  is  perhaps  the  most  notable  in  this  respeet.  Being 
a  very  lofty  building,  it  was  used  as  a  kind  of  fort,  and  garrisoned 
by  the  president's  guard.  Some  of  the  upper  window-bUnds  were 
completely  riddled  with  bullets,  and  in  tne  garden,  Mr.  N.  in- 
formed me,  that  he  had  found  a  quantity  of  balls,  of  from  half  a 
pound  to  a  pound  in  weight.  These  were  probably  thrown  from 
the  vessels  then  lying  in  the  harbour. 

The  view  of  Para  from  the  cupola  of  this  building  is  very  pic- 
turesque and  variegated.  The  red-tiled  roofs  of  the  houses,  the 
rich  shrubbery  of  the  gardens,  with  here  and  there  a  single  eocoa^ 
nut  tree  lifting  up  its  feather-tufted  head,  constitute  a  pleasing  con- 
trast, while  the  dark  and  venerable-looking  churches,  and  the  vine- 
grown  walls  of  the  unfinished  theatre  gave  additional  interest  to  the 
charming  scene.  Before  you,  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  harbour, 
studded  with  little  islands,  stretch  out  like  a  lake.  Behind  you 
a  dense  wilderness  of  never-fading  foliage  presents  an  imposing 
background  to  the  enchanting  landscape. 

The  ensuing  day  was  probably  the  most  remarkable  that  we  in 
person  had  ever  witnessed  in  Brazil.  It  was  called  the  "Dia  de 
Intrude,"  or  Intrudlng-day.  Being  the  day  immediately  preceding 
Lent,  it  seemed  as  if  the  multitude  had  determined  to  enjoy  them- 
selves as  much  as  possible,  while  they  yet  had  it  in  their  power,  in 
view  of  the  restrictions  which  the  coming  season  always  imposes 
upon  their  conduct. 

On  "  Intruding-day,"  every  one  is  permitted  to  assail  whomsoever 
he  pleases,  with  such  articles  as  are  accustomed  to  be  used  on  this 
occasion.  The  most  innocent  of  these  are  small  waxen  balls  called 
"cabadnhas;"  being  about  equal  to  a  hen's  egg  in  size,  and  filled 
with  perfumed  water.  For  some  time  previous  to  the  day  in  ques- 
tion, black-eyed  damsels  may  be  seen  parading  the  streets,  wiUi 


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ADVENTURES   ON   THE  AMAZON.  35T 

large  trays  on  their  uncovered  heads,  laden  with  these  sportive 
missiles,  glistening  with  their  gay  colours  of  azure  and  crimson  and 
gold.  They  are  sold  for  a  penny  a-piece,  and  every  one  lays  in  a 
stock  of  them,  in  preparation  for  the  approaching  carnival. 
'  On  the  morning  of  this  remarkable  anniversary,  all  the  balconies 
of  the  different  mansions  are  forti6ed  with  frolicksome  damsels,  who 
keep  up  an  indiscriminate  warfare  with  their  cabacinhas,  against  all 
who  lucklessly  attract  their  attention  in  the  street.  But  the  sport  is 
not  entirely  confined  to  the  innocent  waxen  balls.  As  the  excite- 
ment increases,  basons,  syringes,  and  even  pails  and  tubs  of  water 
are  called  into  requisition.  Every  one  is  assaulted,  but  no  one  pre- 
tends to  take  offence.  Should  a  person  be  disposed  to  do  so,  ten  to 
<ine  that  he  would  be  seized  and  most  unceremoniously  ducked  into 
a  boeshead  of  water,  until  his  foolish  ire  was  somewhat  abated. 
This  nas  been  done  in  several  instances. 

Heedless  of  all  consequences,  Jenks  and  myself  rashly  ventured 
into  the  streets  for  the  purpose  of  witnessing  the  sport.  Cabacinhas 
were  fljring  in  all  directions,  syringes  were  filling  the  air  with  glit* 
tering  spray,  while  basons  and  dippers  and  pails,  wielded  by  female 
hands,  were  pouring  their  watenr  contents  with  marvellous  assi- 
duity upon  the  devoted  heads  of  the  unfortunate  passers-by. 

We  by  no  means  escaped  unscathed ;  on  the  contrary,  in  less  than 
half  an  hour  we  were  as  thoroughly  drenched  as  if  we  had  been 
taking  a  bath  in  the  river  with  our  clothes  on.  But  don't  imagine, 
fond  reader,  that  we  bore  all  this  with  the  patience  of  a  Job,  or  the 
humility  of  an  anchorite.  No  such  thing !  Eagerly  we  rushed  into 
the  thickest  of  the  fray,  throwing  our  cabacinhas  with  skill,  wherever 
a  pretty  face  presented  itself.  Feeping  through  a  half  open  lattice,  I 
perceived  a  lovely  young  damsel  luxuriantly  reclining  m  her  ham- 
mock, her  long  sable  tresses  hanging  in  wavy  masses  over  her 
pretty  face  and  olive-mantled  bosom.  She  appeared  to  be  in  a  gentle 
slumber,  and  the  magic  smile  that  still  played  around  her  rosy  lips, 
nearly  disarmed  me  of  my  intended  purpose. 

But  my  determination  was  made,  and  it  was  now  too  late  to  re- 
tract So  delicately  tossing  one  of  my  cabacinhas  into  the  apartment^ 
alas !  it  broke  upon  the  cheek  of  the  charming  maiden :  jumping  up 
hurriedly  in  her  iHght,  she  rushed  at  once  to  the  window,  and  in  an 
instant  her  stag-like  eyes  were  fixed  upon  me  as  the  heartless  assail^ 
ant.  Transfixed  with  guilt  and  enraptured  at  the  sight  of  her  beauty, 
my  heart  forbade  me  for  the  deed  I  had  committed,  and  I  felt  half 
resolved  to  make  atonement  for  my  crime,  but  just  at  this  moment^ 
a  well-charffed  ball  from  the  hand  of  the  maiden  herself,  almost 
blinded  my  left  ogle,  and  suddenly  drove  the  idea  from  my  mind. 

The  most  formidable  of  all  the  belligerents,  was  a  certain  widow 
lady,  who  had  from  a  lofty  balcony  been  pouring  down  pails  of 
water  upon  the  heads  of  all  who  passed  below.  Bmit  on  revenue,  a 
young  man  who  had  been  near  drowned  by  this  virago,  entered  her 
house,  with  his  pockets  full  of  cabacinhas.  He  was  white,  surely, 
when  he  entered  that  fatal  house,  but  when  he  came  out,  his  com- 
plexion was  as  dark  as  that  of  the  raven's  wing.  How  it  came  so, 
any  reader  with  the  slightest  spark  of  imagination  can  easily  surmise. 
But  to  be  brief.  The  day  passed  by  without  any  consequent  evils, 
and  the  beautiful  moonlight  evening  which  followed,  was  consecrated 
by  music,  dancing,  and  revelry  of  every  kind ! 


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352 
THE   RISE   AND   FALL   OP    MASANIELLO. 

BY  THE   AUTHOR  OF   ''THE   HEIRESS  OF  BUDOWA.** 

The  page  of  history  has  been  marked  with  few  more  extraordi- 
nary events  than  the  rise  and  fall  of  Masaniello.  There  is  no  story 
upon  record  of  despotic  power  so  suddenly  acquired — so  well 
employed — so  quickly  lost  It  was  within  the  short  space  of  six 
days  that  the  bare-footed  6sherman  of  Amalfi  raised  and  organized 
an  army  of  50^000  men^  subjugated  to  his  absolute  sway  a  powerful 
and  flourishing  city,  triumphed  over  the  deputed  authority  of  Spain^ 
and  trampled  under  foot  the  honours  and  privileges  of  the  proudest 
and  most  ancient  among  the  Italian  nobility.  The  wonders  wrought 
by  his  rude  arm  and  uncultivated  ffenius  were  never  equalled  by  the 
practised  skill  and  experienced  heroism  of  the  greatest  men  in 
ancient  or  modem  times.  Perhaps  in  the  very  ignorance  of  diffi- 
culty lay  a  part  of  his  strength,  as  those  who  wander  recklessly 
during  sleep  or  intoxication  pass  unscathed  through  dangers  that 
must  needs  be  fatal  to  a  fully  conscious  asent.  But  the  use  made 
of  his  strangely-acquired  power  cannot  m  any  degree  be  thus 
accounted  for.  The  justice,  the  wisdom,  the  sound  policy,  and  the 
noble  disinterestedness  unvaryingly  displayed  throughout  his  brief 
but  brilliant  career,  will  bear  evidence  to  the  latest  posterity  that 
its  disastrous  close  was  owing  to  the  treachery  of  the  Spaniard,  not 
to  the  weakness  of  the  Neapolitan.  The  admirable  harmony  exist- 
ing amongst  Masaniello's  mental  and  moral  G[uali6cations  for  govern- 
ment fairly,  lead  to  the  conclusion  that  his  character  was.  far  too 
powerfully  constituted  to  be  moved  to  giddiness  by  the  most  unac- 
customed heights.  The  mystery  of  his  sad  fate  must,  however, 
always  remain  shrouded  in  darkness :  any  decision  that  can  now  be 
formed  respecting  it  must  depend  more  upon  the  metaphysical  ana- 
lysis of  the  inquirer  than  on  the  certain  testimony  of  facts.  To 
many  it  is  more  difficult  to  believe  in  the  strange,  slow-working 
efficacy  of  a  now-forgotten  drug  than  that  the  powerful  mind  of 
Masaniello  was  upset  by  its  own  inner  workings  alone.  To  such 
the  popular  belief  is  entirely  satisfactory ;  they  easily  6nd  in  the 
excitement  of  a  vain,  self-satisfied,  quickly-intoxicated  brain  the  real 
solution  of  the  hero's  mysterious  madness*  Respecting  the  other 
facts  of  his  extraordinary  career,  there  exists  no  manner  of  doubt : 
these  are  well  attested  by  historians  worthy  of  credit,  and  these 
alone  are  here  presented  to  the  reader. 

In  a  comer  of  the  great  market-place  of  Naples  rose  the  humble 
dwelling  of  Thomas  Anello,  of  Amalfi;  he  was  by  trade  one  of 
those  whom  the  Neapolitans  call  Pescivendoli.  He  got  his  living  by 
angling  for  small  fish  with  a  cane,  hook,  and  line.  Sometimes  he 
bought  fish,  and  retailed  them  to  his  neighbours :  his  was  a  life  of 
industry  and  hard  labour,  and  so  it  continued  until  he  attained  the 
age  of  twenty-four.  Some  prophetic  instincts  of  future  greatness, 
however,  had  gleamed  through  the  darkness  of  a  lot  of  drudgery 
and  privation,  or  more  probably  the  prophecy  of  the  future  was  in- 
volved in  the  workings  of  his  own  mind,  its  peculiar  form  alone  being 
received  from  the  extemal  circumstances  most  calculated  to  impress 
it.  By  a  strange  coincidence  the  arms  and  the  name  of  Charles 
V.  were  placed  in  very  ancient  carving  under  one  of  the  win-^ 


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THE  RISE   AND   FALL   OF   MASANIELLO.  353 

dows  of  the  fisherman's  humble  home.  This  great  monarch's 
memory  was  dear  to  the  people  of  Naples^  as  they  were  indebted  to 
him  for  the  ffrant  of  a  very  important  charter  of  privileges ;  and 
Thomas  Anello  was  heard  at  times  to  boast,  half  in  jest  half  in 
earnest^  that  he  was  the  person  destined  to  restore  the  city  to  the 
liberty  and  exemptions  accorded  them  by  the  Emperor  of  Austria* 
Many  years  had  now  elapsed  since  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  having 
undergone  sundry  changes  and  revolutions,  submitted  itself  volun- 
tarily to  the  power  of  Austria*  Its  attachment  to  that  imperial 
house  had  been  proved  by  liberal  contributions  to  its  treasury. 
Large  donations  were  freely  offered  to  the  kings  Philip  II.,  III.,  and 
IV.  of  Spain  ;*  and  the  sovereigns  of  the  house  of  Austria  professed 
themselves  fully  sensible  of  a  loyalty  and  affection  so  satisfactorily 
proved.  The  people,  however,  suffered  severely  from  their  gover- 
nors' acts  of  generosity.  They  were  oppressed  with  heavy  ex- 
actions ;  the  provisions  necessary  for  the  support  of  life  grew  dear, 
and  were  placed  almost  beyond  the  reach  of  the  poor.  Even  the 
indolent  patience  of  a  sunny  clime  and  cloudless  skies  began 
to  fail ;  popular  discontents  arose,  gathered  strength,  and  were  at 
length  openlv  expressed.  The  populace  were  already  ripe  for  an 
outbreak,  wnen,  in  an  evil  hour  for  Spain,  a  new  donative  was 
offered  to  the  acceptance  of  its  king,  Philip  IV.  It  was  eagerly 
accepted ;  but  all  commodities  being  already  taxed,  it  was  difficult 
to  contrive  a  method  to  raise  the  money.  The  expedient  hit  upon 
was  eminently  unfortunate.  It  was  decided  to  lay  a  gabel  (or  tax) 
on  every  sort  of  fruit,  dry  as  well  as  green ;  grapes,  figs,  mulberries, 
apples,  pears,  and  plums  were  all  includal,  thus  depriving  the 
lowest  class  of  people  of  their  usual  nourishment  and  support,  and 
reducing  them  to  the  extreme  of  misery  and  distress.  This  gabel 
was  collected  with  severity  for  seven  months ;  manv  poor  wretches 
were  obliged  to  sell  all  their  household  stuff,  even  the  beds  they  lay 
upon ;  and  at  last,  driven  to  despau*,  they  resolved  to  resist  exac- 
tions impossible  to  satisfy. 

The  Duke  of  Arcos^  a  grandee  of  the  first  order,  was  the  viceroy 
of  Naples  under  the  king  of  Spain.  He  was  a  man  of  mild  and 
yielding  temper,  personally  brave,  but  utterly  incapable  of  acting 
with  energy  or  promptitude  either  for  good  or  evil.  The  thin 
**  blue  bl^Kl "  of  a  Spanish  grandee,  filtered  in  its  long  descent 
through  hundreds  of  noble  ancestors,  could  ill  support  the  test  of 
collision  with  the  fresh  and  healthy  current  that  flowed  in  the  veins 
of  the  low-born  and  free-hearted  Masanielio.  The  fisherman  of 
Amalfi  is  described  as  ''  a  man  of  middle  stature,  with  sharp  and 
piercing  black  eyes,  his  body  rather  lean  than  fat,  his  hair  cropped 
short ;  ne  wore  a  mariner's  cap  upon  his  head,  long  linen  slops  or 
drawers,  a  blue  waistcoat,  his  feet  were  always  bare.  Oaring  and 
enterprise  were  expressed  in  his  strongly  marked  countenance,  his 
address  was  bold  and  confident,  his  disposition  pleasant  and  hu- 
morous." It  is,  however,  probable  that  this  descnption  was  drawn 
from  memory,  after  Masanielio  had  become  world-famous.  Other 
accounts  represent  him  as  looked  down  upon  by  his  associates  for 
inferiority  of  intellect  To  few  is  the  insight  granted  to  see  the 
hero  until  the  outward  semblance  is  put  on. 

*  Charles  V.  was  Emperor  of  Austria  in  right  of  his  father  Philip ;  King  of 
Spain,  in  right  of  his  mother  Joanna,  the  heiress  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella. 


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364  THE  RISE  AND   FALL 

Masaniello's  afiecdmis  were  as  warm  as  his  temper  was  impe- 
tuous. An  insult  offered  to  his  wife  first  roused  the  sleeping  lion 
in  his  breast^  and  gave  consistency  and  determination  to  his  projects 
of  resistance  to  the  governm^it.  She  had  been  met  in  the  streets 
by  the  officers  of  the  customs,  with  a  small  quantity  of  contraband 
flour  concealed  in  her  apron,  and  though  the  fiery  Masaniello 
stooped  to  the  most  humble  entreaties  and  even  to  tears,  she  was 
dragged  to  prison  before  his  eyes,  and  c(mfined  there  until  he  had 
sold  every  tning  he  possessed  to  pay  the  fine  set  on  her  ofience. 
But  not  again  was  he  to  experience  the  agony  of  helplessness ;  it 
was  for  the  last  time  he  had  implored  in  vain.  He  had  no  sooner 
replaced  his  wife  in  their  now  desolate  home,  than  he  set  about  the 
execution  of  proiects  of  vengeance  to  be  speedily  realized ;  the  in- 
sult offered  to  the  fisherman's  wife  was  washed  out  in  the  noblest 
blood  of  Naples. 

His  first  undertaking  was  only  partially  successful ;  the  riot  he 
had  excited  was  soon  quelled,  and  the  disappointed  fisherman  return- 
ed home,  less  hopeful  but  not  less  determmed.  As  he  approached 
his  stall  in  the  market-place,  it  so  happened  that  a  number  of  boys 
were  at  that  moment  collected  about  it ; — such  was  the  scene  and 
such  the  instruments  that  served  as  foundations  to  his  future  power; 
— ^n  empty  fish  stall  and  a  few  of  the  boy-rabble  of  an  enslaved 
and  impoverished  dtv. 

Worked  upon  by  the  rude  eloquence  of  Masaniello,  the  boys,  who 
listened  to  his  impassioned  appeals,  consented  readily  to  obey  his 
directions.  Traversing  hourly  every  street  of  the  dty,  they  re* 
peated  loudly  and  incessantly  the  lesson  he  had  taught  them. 
^'  Look  ye  here,  how  we  are  ridden,  gabel  upon  gabel !  thirty-six 
ounces  the  loaf  of  bread,  twenty-two  the  pound  of  cheese,  two 
granas  the  pint  of  wine  1  Are  these  things  to  be  endured  ?  Let 
God  live !  let  the  Lady  of  Carmine  live  I  let  the  pope  live !  long 
live  the  king  of  Spain,  but  let  our  cursed  government  die!" 
The  tumult  caused  by  the  incessant  repetitions  of  Masaniello's 
lesson  set  the  whole  city  in  an  uproar ;  the  noise  the  boys  made 
produced  different  impressions ;  <'  some  fell  a-Iaughing  at  the  odd* 
ness  of  the  thing,  others  began  to  be  in  pain  for  the  consequences." 
They  little  knew  the  powerful  hand  that  was  on  the  watch  to  direct 
them  aright,  and  out  of  the  tumult  to  bring  forth  peace.  On  that 
very  day  Masaniello  enlisted  the  boys  who  offered  to  follow  him  to 
the  number  of  five  hundred ;  their  ages  were  about  sixteen,  seven- 
teen, and  eighteen,  "  all  choice,  sturdy  lads." 

Sunday,  uie  next  day,  the  country  fruiterers  assembled  just  as 
usual  to  sell,  and  the  officers  to  collect  the  tax,  but  all  these  prepa- 
rations were  vain ;  the  shopkeepers  positively  refused  to  buy  unless 
the  promise  that  had  quieted  them  the  day  before  were  fulfilled,  and 
the  gabel  removed.  The  countrymen,  finding  they  were  to  have 
no  market  for  their  goods,  were  full  of  rage  and  disappointment ; 
Masaniello  was  at  hand  to  seize  the  opportunity,  and  heading  hu 
troop  of  boys,  he  ran  into  the  midst  of  the  tumult,  exclaiming 
loudly,  "  Without  gabel !  without  gabel ! "  The  people  soon  col- 
lected in  great  numbers;  they  marched  in  triumph  through  the 
streets,  crying  loudly,  <*  Long  live  the  king  of  Spain,  but  let  the 
cursed  government  die."  It  was  then  that,  standing  upon  the  highest 
table  among  the  fruit-stalls,  Masaniello  addressed  to  them  the  fol- 


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OF  MASANIELLO.  365 

lowing  Bpeech,  ffiven  at  full  l^igth,  that  the  reader  may  judge  of 
the  nature  of  Uiat  eloquence  which  for  a  few  short  days  swayed 
every  heart,  and  ruled  every  hand,  within  the  reach  of  its  in- 
fluence : — 

''  Again,  my  dear  companions  and  countrymen,  give  God  thanks, 
and  the  most  gracious  Virgin  of  Carmine,  that  the  hour  oIl  our  re- 
demption and  the  time  of  our  deliverance  draweth  near :  this  poor 
fisherman,  barefooted  as  he  is,  shall,  as  another  Moses,  who  delivered 
the  Israelites  from  the  cruel  rod  of  Pharaoh  the  Egyptian  king,  free 
voo  from  all  gabels  and  impositions  that  ever  were  laid  upon  you. 
It  was  a  fisherman,  I  mean  St.  Peter,  who  reduced  the  city  of  Rome 
from  the  slavery  of  the  de^  to  the  liberty  of  Christ,  and  the  whole 
world  followed  that  deliverance  and  obtained  their  freedom  from  the 
same  bondage.  Now  another  fisherman,  one  Masaniello,  (I  am  the 
man)  shall  release  the  city  of  Naples,  and  with  it  a  whole  kingdom 
from  the  cruel  yoke  of  tolls  and  gabels.  To  bring  this  glorious  end 
about,  for  myself,  I  don't  value  if  I  am  torn  to  pieces  and  dragged 
up  and  down  the  city  o£  Naples,  through  all  the  kennels  and  gutters 
that  belong  to  it  Let  all  the  blood  in  my  body  flow  cheerfully  out 
of  these  veins ;  let  this  head  fall  from  these  shoulders  by  the  fatal 
steel,  and  be  perched  up  over  this  market-place  on  a  pole  to  be  sazed 
at,  yet  I  shall  die  contented  and  glorious.  It  will  be  triumph  and 
honour  sufficient  for  me  to  think  that  my  blood  and  my  life  were 
sacrificed  in  so  worthy  a  cause,  and  that  I  became  the  saviour  of  my 
country." 

The  breathless  silence  maintained  through  this  long  harangue — an 
excited  mob  of  fiery  southern  temperament  being  the  listeners,  is 
alone  a  sufficient  test  of  its  eloquence.  Universal  applause  succeeded, 
and  the  people  declared  themselves  ready  to  follow  wherever 
Masaniello  chose  to  lead. 

The  tollhouses,  where  the  account-books  of  the  gabel  were  laid 
up,  were  the  first  objects  of  their  fury.  They  were  ransacked  of 
their  contents,  and  most  of  them  burnt  to  the  ground.  The  spread- 
ing flames  alarmed  the  whole  city,  and  many  of  the  peaceably  in- 
clined joined  the  rioters,  as  the  best  means  of  preserving  their  pro- 
perty uninjured.  Towards  the  aflemoon  the  following  of  Masamello 
had  increased  to  the  number  of  10,000,  and  they  now  demanded 
with  loud  cries  to  be  led  to  the  Viceroy's  palace.  Personally  fear- 
less, the  Duke  of  Arcos  made  no  attempt  to  escape,  but  appeared  at 
a  balcony  and  endeavoured  to  soothe  the  rioters  into  submission. 
The  ofl*ers  he  made  of  partially  repealing  the  taxes  were,  however, 
scornfully  rejected ;  the  mob  forced  their  wav  into  the  palace,  and 
irritated  by  the  opposition  of  the  guards  would  certainly  have  torn 
the  duke  to  pieces,  had  he  not  been  conveyed  away  by  a  stratagem 
of  the  Duke  di  Castel  de  Sangro. 

Darkness  brought  no  calm  to  Naples,  nor  cessation  to  the  exertions 
of  the  people :  all  the  night  througn  they  were  engaged  in  collecting 
arms  and  ammunition,  and  making  hostile  preparations  for  the  fol- 
lowing day.  Three  times  the  loud  peal  of  the  great  bell  belonging 
to  the  church  of  the  Lady  of  the  Carmine  was  heard  in  the  remotest 
quarters  of  the  city,  summoning  their  inhabitants  to  arm  for  the 
cause  of  freedom. 

Before  it  was  clear  day  Masaniello  appeared  in  the  great  market- 
place, and  dividing  the  people,  who  were  there  met  together,  into 


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356  THE   RISE   AND   FALL 

regiments  and  companies^  he  distributed  amonff  them  whatever  arms 
they  had  been  able  to  collect.      With  singular  dexterity  he  had 
ahready  acquired  complete  authority,  and  his  rude  oratory  kindled 
the  passions,  and  swayed  the  wills  of  his  followers  so  effectually 
that  ^'  they  needed  but  a  motion  of  his  hand/'  says  the  historian,  *'  to 
cut  the  throats  of  all  the  nobility,  and  set  every  house  in  the  city  on 
fire."     Nothing  now  was  to  be  heard  in  the  streets  but  the  noise  of 
drums  and  trumpets,  and  the  clashing  of  armour.    Banners  waved 
aloft,  each  man  ranging  himself  under  his  appointed  colours ;  that 
which  was  yesterday  but  a  rabble-rout,  is  to  day  a  formidable  and 
well-ordered  army.     The  soldiers  marched  along,  bearing  lances  and 
targets,  with  swords  drawn,  musquets  &d  arquebuses  cocked.    The 
country-people  had  by  this  time  thronged  into  the  city  in  great  mul- 
titudes; armed  with  plough-shares,  pitch-forks,  spades  and  pikes, 
the V  joined  themselves  to  the  more  regular  forces,  their  wild  cries 
and  mrious  gestures  inspiring  universal  terror.    The  insurgents  were 
accompanied  by  numbers  of  women,  who  carried  fire  shovels,  iron- 
tongs,  and  any  other  household  instrument  they  could  convert  to 
purposes  of  distruction.     They  exclaimed  loudly  as  they  marched 
along,  that  **  they  would  burn  the  city,  and  themselves  and  children 
along  with  it,  rather  than    bring  up  their  children  to  be  slaves 
and  pack-horses  to  a  proud  and  haughty  nobilitv."    And  truly 
it  was  now  the  turn  of  this  proud  and  haughty  nobility  to  obey  and 
to  tremble.     Those  who  had  not  made  their  escape  in  time  knew  that 
they  were  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  the  infuriated  populace.    No  man 
was  safe  either  in  life  or  property.    All  business  and  public  offices 
were  at  a  stand.    Studies  were  neglected,  books  abandoned;  the 
bar  was  solitary,  the  law  ceased  ;  advocates  were  dumb.    The  judges 
were  fled,  and  die  courts  of  justice  were  shut  up. 

In  the  meantime  the  viceroy  had  taken  refuge  in  the  strong  hold  of 
Castelnovo.  He  summoned  a  council  of  the  nobility  who  hastily 
gathered  round  him,  and  consulted  with  them  as  to  the  best  mea- 
sures to  be  pursued.  The  nobles  of  Naples,  as  well  as  the  mer*- 
chants  had  advanced  large  sums  to  the  government  on  the  gabel, 
and  they  strongly  dissuaded  the  viceroy  from  concessions  neces- 
sarily prejudicial  to  their  interests.  Their  opinion  was  in  favour 
of  a  sally  from  Castelnovo.  The  Duke  of  Arcos,  however,  gentle 
in  disposition  and  unwarlike  in  habits,  was  averse  to  any  violent 
measure ;  he  decided  against  the  proposal  of  the  nobles  and  sent  a 
conciliatory  embassy  to  Masanlello. 

Many  of  the  nobility  were  joined  with  the  Duke  of  Mataloni, 
a  nobleman  in  high  favour  with  the  people^  in  this  embassage,  and 
forcing  their  way  in  amongst  the  insurgents,  they  loudly  announ- 
ced to  them  in  the  name  of  the  viceroy  that  all  gabels  should  be 
abolished  by  public  authority ;  they  intrea(ted  them,  therefore,  to 
lay  down  their  arms.  But  Masaniello  quickly  arrested  their  pro- 
gress. He  who  was  yesterday  the  barefooted  fisherman  of  Amalfi 
now  exercised  despotic  authoritv  over  the  hearts  and  hands  of 
thousands,  and  he  confronted  the  haughty  nobility  with  a  pride 
equal  to  their  own.  Mounted  on  a  noble  and  richly  caparisoned 
charger,  he  headed  his  followers,  sword  in  hand,  and  refused  to 
allow  any  answer  to  be  given  to  the  embassage  until  credentials 
from  the  viceroy  were  produced.  Astonished  at  his  daring,  the 
Duke  de  Mataloni  and  his  companions  had  great  difficulty  in  dis* 


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OF  MASANIBLLO*  357 

sembling  their  indignatioii ;  nevertheless^  they  replied  coarteouslj 
that  **  if  he  would  condescend  to  hear  their  proposal^  he  might  then 
judge  of  them  as  he  in  his  great  wisdom  should  think  fit ;  and  if  they 
should  be  so  fortunate  as  to  come  to  any  terms  of  affreeroent^  they 
agreed  to  see  the  conditions  executed  at  the  hazard  of  their  own 
Uvea." 

The  general  and  his  followers  proceeded  to  detail  at  full  length 
the  redress  they  claimed  for  their  grievances.  Their  statement  is 
so  just  in  matter,  and  so  moderate  in  tone>  that  it  well  deserves  a 
quotation  at  full  length.  The  sound  reasoning  and  stronff  sense  of 
justice  manifested  throughout  the  proceedings  of  a  Neapolitan  mob 
of  the  seventeenth  century^  affords  a  striking  precedent  for  a  later 
period. 

''They  desired  no  more/'  they  said,  ''than  that  the  privileges 
granted  to  the  city  of  Naples  by  King  Ferdinand  should  be  made 
good.  They  were  afterwards  confirmed  by  Charles  V.,  of  glo* 
nous  memory,  who  by  oath  had  promised  to  this  faithful  city  that 
no  new  taxes  should  be  laid  on  the  people  of  Naples  by  himself  or 
hit  successors,  without  the  consent  of  the  Apostolic  See.  If  they 
were  imposed  with  that  authority  they  were  to  be  obeyed ;  other- 
wise the  city  and  the  people  had  the  liberty  to  refuse  the  payment. 
They  might,  if  they  pleased,  rise  one  and  all  with  sword  in  hand, 
in  defence  of  their  charter,  without  the  imputation  of  rebellion  or 
irreverence  to  the  prince  who  governed  them.  Now,  since  all  taxes, 
very  few,  and  they  of  small  conseouence,  excepted,  have  been  im- 
posed without  the  consent  of  his  Reverence,  it  was  but  just  that 
they  should  be  immediately  taken  off,  being  in  themselves  void  and 
of  no  effect;  they  furUier  claimed  to  Imve  the  original  of  said 
charter,  preserved  in  the  archives  of  St  Lawrence's  Church,  de- 
livered into  their  hands."  The  noblemen  listened  with  patience, 
and  took  their  leave  with  courtesy,  promising  as  they  departed  to 
use  their  best  endeavours  with  the  Viceroy. 

When  they  returned  to  Castelnovo,  the  Duke  of  Arcos  called  an- 
other council  to  advise  with  them  as  to  the  possibility  of  acceding 
to  the  demands  of  Masanidlo.  This  delav  added  fuel  to  the  violence 
of  the  insurgents;  fire  and  sword  raged  unonposedly  everywhere, 
and  the  most  splendid  palaces  of  Naples  were  burnt  to  the  ground. 

^  The  people,  when  they  appointed  Masaniello  their  general,  gave 
him  for  privy  coundllor  a  priest  of  the  name  of  Juno  Oenovino. 
He  was  beloved  and  much  depended  upon  bv  the  people  for  his 
singular  ability,  prudence,  and  experience.  These  Qualities  were, 
iMwever,  stained  by  cruelty  and  crafl,  and  it  is  to  him  and  to  the 
bandit  Perrone  that  the  murders  and  burnings  that  now  devasUted 
the  city  are  jiMlCly  to  be  attributed.  These  two  councillors  were 
given  to  attend  upon  Masaniello  under  the  pretence  of  being  a  curb 
to  his  fury,  instead  of  which  it  was  all  in  vain  he  attempted  to  ex- 
ercise a  restraint  upon  theirs.  Blazing  faggots  were  seen  in  every 
quarter  preparing  for  the  execution  of  their  sentences,  and  it  was 
happy  for  the  inmates  when  ihej  escaped  with  life. 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  disorders,  however,  the  most  exact  rules  of 
justice  and  moral  honesty  was  strictly  observed.  "  All  was  done  for 
the  public  good,  and  no  private  interest  was  to  be  considered."  One 
man  was  instantly  struck  down  dead  for  pilfering  a  small  towel,  and 
many  who  had  fallen  victims  to  the  temptations  of  seeing  so  much 

VOL.   XXIII.  P  D 


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368  THE   RISE  AND   FALL 

splendid  property  and  coin  pass  throaffh  their  liands  into  the  fire» 
were  hung  np  in  the  market-place  by  uie  order  of  Masaniello.  In 
the  flames  that  glowed  and  spread  beneath  his  eyes,  the  viceroy 
read  the  absolute  necessity  of  acquiescence.  He  consented  to  all 
and  every  demand,  and  it  was  arranged  the  articles  of  capitulation 
should  be  read  aloud  the  next  morning  in  the  great  market-place. 
'  Hope  dawned  on  the  city  with  the  morning's  sun.  The  better  dis- 
posed among  the  people  sighed  for  peace,  and  desired  earnestly  the 
termination  of  the  disturbances,  only  to  be  tolerated,  they  thought, 
as  a  necessary  means  to  the  attainment  of  their  rights.  Even  the 
rabble  themselves,  dazzled  by  the  prospect  of  the  immunities  and 
privileges  they  were  on  the  point  of  enjoying,  laid  aside  their  fury, 
and  wished  and  hoped  for  a  return  of  tranquillity.  But  the  fair 
prospects  of  the  eager  crowds  gathered  in  the  market-place  were  all 
blasted  by  a  fatal  and  unexpected  incident  While  the  dense  multi- 
tude, wedged  close  together,  awaited  in  triumphant  confidence  the 
arrival  of  the  archbishop,  the  life  of  their  leader,  Masaniello,  was 
attempted.  Five  musket  shots  were  fired  at  him  by  a  party  of  ban- 
ditti who  had  forced  their  way  among  the  crowd.  A  bullet  or  two 
came  so  near  as  to  singe  his  clothing,  but  the  precious  life  remained 
untouched.  The  people  shouted  loudly  that  this  was  a  manifest 
sign  of  the  favour  of  Providence ;  that  a  miraculous  interposition 
had  preserved  their  deliverer.  Gratitude  to  heaven  was  rapidly 
succeeded  by  revenge  upon  men ;  thirty  of  the  bandits  were  killed 
on  the  spot,  and  though  the  rest  took  refuge  in  the  church  of  Car- 
mine, the  sanctity  of  the  place  could  not  preserve  them  from  the 
rage  of  the  populace.  The  whole  pavement  was  soon  covered  with 
slaughtered  bodies,  and  the  angubhed  cries  of  the  wounded  for  con- 
fessors were  drowned  in  the  triumphant  shouts  of  the  avoigers* 
One  of  the  dying  men  acknowledgea  that  the  five  hundred  bandits 
had  been  sent  by  the  Duke  of  Mataloni  and  Don  Pepe  Caraffa, 
his  brother,  to  revenge,  by  the  death  of  Masaniello,  the  insults  he 
had  received  from  the  rabble.  Domenico  Perrone,  the  coadjutor  of 
Masaniello,  had  been,  he  added,  another  prime  mover  in  the  plot ; 
the  rage  of  the  people  revenged  this  treachery  by  instant  death. 

Masaniello  now  despatched  troops  in  every  direction  in  search  o£ 
the  Duke  of  Mataloni  and  Don  Pepe  Caraffa.  By  speed  and  cunning 
the  duke  escaped,  but  Cacafla  was  dragged  from  under  a  bed  in  the 
convent  where  he  had  taken  refuge,  and  his  head  cut  off  with  a 
chopping-knife  bv  Michael  de  Sanctis,  who  owed  his  expertness  to 
his  parentage.  The  powerful  noble,  at  whose  name  the  whole  king- 
dom of  Naples  had  been  used  to  tremble,  met  with  his  ignominious 
end  by  the  hand  of  a  butcher's  son.  Masaniello  now  directed  his 
rage  against  the  viceroy. 

But  his  positive  denial  of  any  share  in  the  attempts  on  Ma- 
saniello's  life,  and  his  zeal  for  the  punishment  of  the  surviving 
assassins,  soothed  the  angry  passions  of  the  people,  and  inclined 
them  to  Ibten  to  proposals  of  peace.  He  had  taken  underhand 
precautions  whiqh  were  still  more  effectual.  He  had  won  over 
the  priest  Julio  Genovino  by  bribes  and  promises,  and  the  ambi- 
tious colleague  of  Masaniello  found  little  difficulty  in  beguiling 
the  honest  and  openhearted  fisherman  to  a  compliance  with  the 
measures  best  suited  to  forward  Genovino's  views. 

The  treaty  of  accommodation  was  at  last  perfected  and  drawn  up 


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OF  MASANIELLO.  359 

by  Oenovino^  read  and  approved  by  Masaniello,  then  finally  signed 
by  the  viceroy,  The  substance  of  the  articles  was  this: — *'That 
the  people  should  from  that  time  forward  enjoy  all  the  benefits, 
privileges,  and  immunities  granted  them  by  the  diarter  of 
Charles  V. ;  that  all  excesses  committed  from  the  7th  of  July,  the 
day  an  whidi  the  insurrection  began,  until  the  signature  of  the 
treaty,  should  be  pardoned  by  a  general  amnesty  ;  that  the  elect  and 
all  the  other  officers  of  the  people  should  be  chosen  every  six  months 
by  the  commons,  without  need  of  any  further  confirmation;  and 
in  case  they  should  not  obtain  such  con6rmation,  they  might  with 
impunity  rise  in  arms,  and  strive  to  redress  themselves,  without 
being  deemed  guilty  of  rebellion." 

The  next  step  towards  a  general  pacification  was  the  visit  of 
Masaniello  to  the  viceroy,  a  visit  he  most  reluctantly  consented  to 
pay,  and  was  only  at  last  prevailed  upon  by  the  solicitations  of  the 
archbishop  of  Naples,  Cardinal  Filomarino.  He  also  succeeded  in 
persuading  him  to  lav  aside  for  the  first  time,  the  '*  tattered  fisher^ 
man's  dress,"  in  which  he  had  conquered  and  ruled  with  authority 
as  despotic  as  ever  belonged  to  the  purple  and  ermine  of  hereditary 
sovereignty, 

Masaniello,  however,  now  appeared  in  magnificent  vestments, 
corresponding  to  the  high  station  he  held.  A  lofty  plume  of  feathers 
waved  over  his  burnished  helmet,  his  well-tried  sword  was  drawn ; 
in  splendid  and  martial  array  he  rode  before  the  archbishop's  coach, 
his  whole  route  appearing  one  long  triumphal  procession.  The 
citizens  strewed  the  way  before  him  with  palm  and  olive  branches ; 
whilst  from  balconies  hung  with  the  richest  silks  and  tapestries,  the 
brightest  ^es  of  Naples  cast  eager  glances  of  curiosity  and  admiration 
upon  the  hero  as  he  passed.  Garlands  of  flowers  were  showered 
upon  him  from  every  side ;  the  air  was  filled  with  sounds  of  exquisite 
music,  and  with  this  mingled  in  rapturous  acclamation  the  praises 
and  the  blessings  of  the  thronging  crowd,  who  greeted  him  with  the 
glorious  title  of  *'  Saviour  of  his  country." 

When  Masaniello  arrived  at  Castelnovo,  he  addressed  the  people 
in  words  Uiat  long  lived  in  their  memories.  He  commenced  with 
calling  upon  them  all  to  thank  Gk>d  ^'  and  the  most  gracious  Lady 
of  Carmine  for  the  recovery  of  their  liberty."  He  then,  in  glow- 
ing terms,  described  the  advantages  procured  to  them  by  the 
articles  just  ratified,  holdine  out  we  charter  of  Charles  VI  as  a 
substantial  proof  of  the  reahty  of  the  occurrences  of  the  last  few 
days,  "which  otherwise,"  he  said,  '« might  well  appear  to  them 
nothing  more  than  a  splendid  dream."  He  continued  by  reminding 
them  of  the  disinterestedness  of  his  services  to  his  country,  calling 
the  archbishop  to  witness  that  he  had  refused  large  bribes  which  had 
been  offered  him  in  the  very  first  day  of  the  Revolution,  if  he  would 
onlv  calm  the  people,  and  induce  them  to  eive  up  their  just  claims. 
"  NiHT  even  at  this  time,"  he  continued,  "  snould  I  have  thrown  off 
my  tattered  weeds,  to  assume  this  gaudy  magnificence  had  not  his 
Eminence,  for  decency's  sake,  and  under  pain  of  excommunication^ 
obliged  me  to  it  No,  no,  I  am  still  Masaniello  the  fisherman,  such 
was  I  born,  such  have  I  lived,  and  such  I  intend  to  live  and  die. 
And  after  having  fished  for  and  caught  the  publif  libertpr,  in  that 
tempestuous  sea  wherein  it  had  been  immersed  so  long,  1 11  return 
to  my  former  condition,  reserving  nothing  for  myself,  but  my  hook 

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360  THE  RISE  AND   FALL 

and  nne^  with  which  to  provide  daily  for  the  necessary  support  of 
the  remainder  of  my  life.  The  only  favour  I  desire  of  you,  in  token 
of  the  acknowledgment  for  all  my  labours  is,  that  when  I  am  dead, 
you  will  each  of  you  say  an  Ave  Maria  for  me.  Do  you  promise 
me  this?"  The  people's  shout  rose  high  into  the  air,  "Yes,"  was 
exclaimed  by  thousands,  *'  but  let  it  l^  a  hundred  years  hence." 
Again  the  rich  dear  voice  of  Masaniello  fell  on  the  ears  of  the 
assembled  multitude,  and  again  their  silence  became  still  as  the 
grave :  **  My  friends,  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  ''and  as  a  further  testi- 
mony of  my  love  to  you,  and  my  adherence  to  your  interests,  I  will 
give  you  two  words  of  advice,  the  first  is  not  to  lay  down  your  arms 
till  the  confirmation  of  your  privileges  arrives  from  Spain,  the  second, 
that  you  e^ould  ever  mistrust  the  nobility,  who  are  our  sworn  and 
professed  enemies.  Take  care  of  them  and  be  upon  your  guard." 
There  was  much  in  the  foregoing  address  that  partook  of  the  nature 
of  a  farewell ;  Masaniello's  exceeding  reluctance  to  consent  to  this 
visit  to  Gastelnovo  may  have  arisen  from  a  presentiment  of  the  fate 
awaiting  him  there,  but  the  frank  and  honest  son  of  the  people  could 
never  have  conceived  the  depth  of  treachery  meditated  against  him 
by  aristocratic  cowardice,  if  any  dark  shadow  of  coming  events 
passed  over  his  mind,  it  never  assumed  the  form  or  likeness  of  the 
truth,  he  thought  he  provided  for  the  "  wild  justice  of  reven^"  by 
commanding  that  if  he  did  not  return  before  the  next  mormng  the 
palace  should  be  set  on  fire.  Loud  cries  of ''  We  will  do  it,"  assured 
him  of  vengeance  at  least,  if  not  of  safety. 

The  viceroy  stood  at  the  head  of  the  great  stair-case  to  receive 
Masaniello,  who  threw  himself  at  the  duke's  feet,  and  having  kissed 
them  he  thanked  his  excellency  in  the  name  of  the  people  for  his 
gracious  acceptation  of  the  treaty.  He  then  added  that  he  had  come 
to  present  himself  to  receive  any  punishment  he  thought  fit  to  inflict* 
But  the  viceroy  raising  and  embracing  him,  assured  him  that  he  was 
so  far  from  looking  upon  him  as  a  criminal  that  he  would  daily  cive 
him  substantial  proofs  of  his  favour  and  esteem.  He  then  led  him 
into  a  private  apartment,  where,  in  company  with  the  archbishop, 
they  consulted  together  on  the  best  measures  to  be  adopted  for  car* 
rying  the  articles  into  effect.  In  the  meantime  the  concourse  of 
peoiHe  in  the  palace-yard  were  seised  with  apprehension  on  account 
ef  Masaniello's  long  absence,  and  became  so  clamorous  for  his  ap- 
pearance, that  the  viceroy  was  obliged  to  break  up  the  council,  and 
to  lead  him  to  a  balcony  where  they  stood  together,  while  Masaniello 
assured  the  people  that  he  was  safe  and  under  no  restraint.  The 
crowd  below  replied  by  loud  shouts  of  ''Long  live  the  King  of 
Spain,  lonff  live  the  Duke  of  Arcos." 

Masani^o's  eye  flashed  with  the  pride  of  power :  "  Your  exceU 
lency  shall  now  see  how  obedient  the  Neapobtan  can  be,"  said  he, 
as  he  put  his  finger  to  his  mouth,  and  at  the  signal,  a  profound 
rilenoe  instantly  fdl  (m  the  shouting  crowd  below  ;  even  the  breath- 
ing of  that  dense  mass  seemed  suspended,  so  hushed,  so  deep,  so 
solemn  was  the  stillness  impressed  on  that  vast  multitude  by  the 
silent  signal  of  one  strong-willed  man*  In  a  few  moments  more, 
Masaniello  raised  his  powerful  voice,  and  commanded  that  every 
soul  should  retire;  the  court-yard  cleared  so  suddenly,  that  con* 
temporary  writers  say  the  viceroy  looked  upon  it  as  a  kind  of 
miracle.    But  if  the  viceroy  had  before  hesitated,  this  rash  display 


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OF  MASANIELLO*  361 

of  Maainidlo's  power  sealed  his  fate.  Amongst  the  hospitalities 
lavishlv  proffered,  the  finest  wines  of  Naples  held  of  course  a  place, 
and  wnile  Masaniello  quaffed  the  deep  red  juices,  a  fatal  dru^  of 
fiery  efiicacy,  but  slow  operation,  insinuated  itself  through  his  veins, 
and  laid  the  foundation  of  his  ruin. 

When  the  fisherman  departed,  the  viceroy  loaded  him  with  com- 
pliments and  commendations,  assuring  him  he  so  highly  approved 
of  his  conduct  hitherto, "  that  he  would  for  the  future  leave  the 
administration  of  affairs  entirely  to  his  care  and  wisdom ;"  and 
Masaniello  accepted  these  words  so  literally,  that  from  that  moment 
to  the  last  of  his  life,  he  acted,  and  in  all  respects  governed,  as  if  he 
bad  been  king  of  Naples.  As  a  final  farewell,  the  viceroy  hunff 
round  his  neck  a  splendid  gold  chain ;  this  he  several  times  refused, 
and  only  at  last  accepted  at  the  earnest  solicitation  of  the  arch- 
bishop* He  also  created  him  Duke  of  St.  George,  a  title  the  high- 
spirited  son  of  the  people  never  deigned  to  assume.  The  numerous 
orders  he  afterwardB  issued  for  the  promotion  of  the  peace  and  welfare 
of  the  city  were  signed  by  the  name  under  which  he  had  triumphed, 
Thomas  Anello  d' Amain.  The  day  following  was  appointed  for 
the  solemn  ceremony  of  finally  ratifying  the  articles  in  the  cathedral 
church  of  Naples.  Masaniello  spent  all  the  morning  in  hearinff 
causes,  redressing  grievances,  and  making  regulations  relating  both 
to  civil  and  military  affairs.  •  He  displayed  throughout  the  same  dear 
head  and  sound  judgment  as  usuiu.  It  was  only  in  the  harangue 
closing  the  final  ceremony  at  the  cathedral,  that  ms  fine  mind  began 
to  give  evidence  of  deranged  powers.  Even  in  the  hour  that  set 
the  seal  to  his  glorious  triumph,  the  treacherous  vengeance  of  his 
enemies  began  to  take  effect 

The  viceroy,  the  council  of  state  and  war,  the  royal  chamber  of 
Santa  Chiara,  the  tribunals  of  the  chancery,  and  all  the  civil  and 
criminal  judges  of  the  great  court  of  the  Vicaria,  were  assembled  in 
the  cath wal  when  Masaniello  arrived ;  they  swore  upon  the  Holy 
Evangelists  ''to  observe  inviolably  for  ever"  the  articles  before 
agreed  to,  and  to  procure  without  dday  their  ratification  from  the 
lung  of  Spain.  A  Te  Deum  followed,  and  then  Masaniello  rose  to 
address  a  respectful  and  admiring  audience. 

His  natural  eloquence  had  not  yet  forsaken  him ;  his  speech  to 
the  noble  and  dignified  assembly  within  the  cathedral,  and  the 
thronging  multitude  without,  contained  many  passages  deserving  of 
high  admiration,  but  so  mixed  up  with  extravagant  iKWsts  and  wikUy 
improbable  assertions,  that  the  listeners  stared  at  each  other  in 
mute  amasement.  Some  amongst  them  imagined  that  his  sudden 
elevation  had  intoxicated  his  brain ;  others,  that  with  overweening 
pride  and  haughtiness  he  desired  to  shew  his  contempt  for  the 
august  assemblage  of  lay  and  ecclesiastical  dignity  to  whom  his  in- 
coherent speech  was  addressed.  Those  few  only  who  were  in  the 
fatal  secret  prudently  avoided  noticing  a  result  they  knew  to  be 
the  triumph  t>f  their  own  treachery. 

Masaniello  having  finished  his  harangue,  began  to  tear  in  pieces 
the  splendid  dress  he  wore,  calling  with  an  air  of  command  upon 
the  archbishop  and  the  viceroy  to  help  him  off  with  it.  He  had 
only  put  it  on,  he  said,  **  for  the  honour  of  the  ceremony  ;  it  was 
become  useless  since  that  was  ended ;  and  having  done  all  that  he 
had  to  do,  he  would  now  return  to  his  hook  and  line."    The  sooth- 


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362  THE  RISE  AND   FALL 

ing  persuasions  of  the  good  archbishop  at  length  succeeded  hi  pre- 
vailing on  him  not  to  lay  aside  his  robes  of  state  until  the  procession 
homeward  was  concluded,  and  the  viceroy  and  the  rest  of  the  noblea 
having  taken  leave  of  him  with  all  due  respect  and  courtesy,  he 
returned  to  his  humble  dwelling  in  the  raarketrplaoe. 

The  next  day  that  lowly  ab^e  was  besiegea  by  a  crowd  of  the 
most  distinguished  nobles  and  ecclesiastics,  also  the  ministers  of 
state^  all  eager  to  pay  their  compliments  to  Masaniello,  and  congra* 
tulate  him  on  his  wonderful  successes.  But  alas !  the  dignity  and 
elevation,  the  calm  of  conscious  superiority,  before  ensuring  his  self- 
possession  under  every  variety  of  circumstance,  had  nOw  completely 
abandoned  him.  The  strangest,  wildest  expressions  escaped  him ; 
the  most  extravagant  acts  tested  his  no  longer  revered,  but  still 
strictly  obeyed  authority;  none  dared  to  oppose  his  will  or  contradict 
his  assertions,  but  suspicions  graduallv  strengthened  into  certainty, 
that  his  once  powerful  intellect  was  by  some  means  or  other  com- 
pletely overthrown.  Various  suppositions  were  put  forward  to  ac- 
count for  the  sudden  madness  of  Masaniello.  Some  asserted  that 
the  heiffht  of  absolute  power  attained  to  almost  in  an  instant,  had 
made  his  head  giddy  and  turned  his  brain ;  others  accounted  for  it 
bv  the  great  and  continual  fatigues  he  had  undergone,  scarcely 
allowing  himself  the  necessary  refreshments  of  food  and  sleep ;  but 
the  opinion,  since  more  openly  expressed,  was  universally  whispered 
then,  that  the  viceroy's  draught  had  heated  his  blood  to  maaness, 
and  would  gradually  produce  hopeless  insanity. 

The  day  after  the  ceremony  in  the  cathedral  Masaniello's  derange- 
ment was  still  more  openly  manifested.  He  rode  full  speed  through 
the  streets  of  Naples,  abusing,  menacing,  and  even  killing  several  of 
the  people  who  had  not  time  to  get  out  of  his  way  ;  he  also  caused 
several  officers  to  be  instantly  put  to  death  for  the  most  trivial 
offences.  About  three  in  the  afternoon  he  went  to  the  palace,  with 
ragged  clothing,  only  one  stocking,  and  without  either  hat  or  sword ; 
and  in  this  coi^tion  forcing  his  way  into  the  viceroj^s  presence,  he 
told  him  he  was  "  almost  starved  to  death,  and  would  fam  eat  some- 
thing." The  viceroy  instantly  commanded  food  to  be  set  beft>re 
him ;  but  Masaniello  exclaimed  that  he  had  not  come  there  to  eat, 
but  to  request  his  excellency  would  accompany  him  to  PoslHppo,  to 
partake  of  a  collation  with  him  there ;  then  giving  a  call,  several 
sailors  entered  loaded  with  all  sorts  of  flraits  and  delicacies.  The 
viceroy  hurriedly  excused  himself  on  account  of  a  pain  in  his  head, 
which,  he  said,  had  that  moment  seised  him ;  but  he  ordered  hit 
own  gondola  to  be  prepared  for  the  voyage,  saw  Masaniello  on 
board,  and  took  leave  of  him  with  seeming  ftiendliness,  but  real 
hate  and  dread.  He  had,  however,  no  cause  for  alarm.  Until  they 
confront  each  other  before  the  Judgment-seat,  the  betrayer  and  the 
betrayed  were  never  to  meet  again. 

The  gondola  that  conveyed  Masaniello  in  viceregal  state  to  Posi- 
lippo,  was  accompanied  by  forty  feluccas,  filled  with  attendants  on 
his  pleasures;  some  danced,  others  played  and  sung,  others  dived 
repeatedly  to  pick  up  the  pieces  of  gold  he  threw  into  the  sea. 
During  this  voyage  he  is  said  to  have  drunk  twelve  bottles  of 
lachrymae  Christi,  and  this  so  heightened  the  efficacy  of  the  viceroy's 
fatal  drug,  that  from  that  moment  he  never  knew  another  interval 
of  reascm. 


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OF  MASANIELLO.  363 

No  sooner  had  the  next  day  dawned  than  he  recommenced  his 
frantic  rides  through  the  city.  He  now  held  a  drawn  sword  in  his 
band^  and  with  it  he  struck  and  maimed  every  one  who  ventured 
within  his  reach.  At  times  he  loudlv  threatened  that  he  would  Uke 
off  the  viceroy's  head;  and  issued  the  most  extravi^ant  orders  to 
bis  followers.  Don  Ferrant  and  Don  Carlos  Caracdolo^  two  illus- 
trious brothers,  were  passing  in  their  carriages  through  the  street 
where  Masaniello  was  on  horseback^  because  they  did  not  get  out 
to  sidute  him^  he  issued  an  order  "  under  pain  of  death  and  firing/' 
that  they  should  come  to  kiss  his  feet  publicly  in  the  market-place. 
Instead  of  obeying  this  insolent  summons,  the  fiery  nobles  hastened 
to  the  viceroy's  palace  and  inveighed  against  the  intolerable  indig* 
nity  of  "A  wretch  sprung  from  the  very  dregs  of  the  rabble,  thus 
trampling  under  his  feet  the  dignity  of  the  proudest  Neapolitan 
nobles."  Even  while  they  yet  spoke  Oenovino  and  Arpaja  entered 
with  heavy  copiplainU  against  Masaniello,  who  had,  that  very  morn- 
ing oaned  one  of  them,  and  given  a  slap  on  the  face  to  the  other. 
They  asserted  that  many  of  the  chief  citizens  were  so  terrified  at 
the  extravagancies  of  Masaniello,  that  if  the  viceroy  woiUd  only 
confirm  the  privileges  he  had  obtained  for  them,  they  desired  no- 
thing better  than  to  return  to  their  allegiance  to  his  excellency,  and 
to  take  away  the  office  of  captain-generid  of  the  people  from  Masa- 
niello. The  Duke  of  Arcos  was  overjoyed  to  find  his  treachery 
so  fkr  successful  that  the  people  were  brought  into  the  very  dis- 
position he  could  wish,  as  it  appeared,  too,  by  Masaniello's  own 
act;  he  immediately  published  a  new  ban  re-confirming  the  capitu- 
lation ;  and  Masaniello  was,  in  a  public  meeting  of  the  citizens,  de- 
posed from  all  his  offices  and  condemned  to  be  confined  in  a  strong 
hoW  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  Notwithstanding  the  many  outrages 
he  had  committed,  no  one  could  find  it  in  their  hearU  to  consent  to 
the  death  of  one  who  had  restored  liberty  to  his  country.  But  the 
viceroy  could  not  feel  himself  in  safety  while  breath  remained  m 
the  wretched  body  which  he  had  deprived  of  mind.  He  therefore 
eagerly  accepted  the  proposal  of  Michael  Angelo  Ardizaone,  who 
offered  to  make  away  with  him  at  the  haaard  of  his  own  life.  He 
promised  him  lavish  rewards  and  unbounded  favour,  and  urged  him 
to  immediate  action. 

The  Ust  scene  of  the  fisherman's  strange  career  now  approaches. 
It  was  the  festival  of  our  Lady  of  Carmine,  and  the  church  of  that 
name  was  filled  with  an  infinite  number  of  persons  waiting  for  the 
arrival  of  the  archbishop  to  b^n  the  singing  of  the  mass.  The 
moment  he  appeared  Masaniello  rushed  forward  and  made  a  pas- 
sionate address  to  him  of  mingled  complaint  and  resignaUon,  con- 
cluding with  a  request  that  he  would  send  a  letter  for  him  to  the 
viceroy.  Soothing  the  poor  lunatic  with  his  accustomed  gentleness, 
the  archbishop  instantly  sent  one  of  his  attendanU  to  the  p^ace 


M.».^«.  *..•*,  W.W  pulpit,  «^  -*..«  ™ 

dressing  himself  to  the  people  earnestly  besought  them  not  to  tor- 
sake  him.  For  some  time  he  spoke  with  aU  his  former  eloquence; 
with  pathos  and  earnestness  he  reminded  them  of  the  toils  and  dan- 
gers he  had  undergone  for  their  sakes,  the  great  deliverance  «id 
the  mvaluable  benefiU  he  had  procured  for  them,  which  they  Had 


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361  THE  BISE  AND  FALL 

jast  seen  confirmed  in  the  very  church  where  he,  their  delirerer, 
now  appealed  to  them  for  succour. 

As  his  discourse  became  more  vehement,  the  lucid  interval 
quickly  terminated ;  the  excitement  he  laboured  under  brought  on 
one  of  his  raving  fits,  and  he  began  to  condemn  himself  for  the  bad- 
ness of  his  past  life,  and  exhort^  every  one  present  to  **  make  the 
like  confession  to  their  ghostly  fisither,  that  so  God's  anger  might  be 
appeased."  He  then  ran  on  into  many  ridiculous  and  extravagant 
expressions,  some  of  which  even  savoured  of  heresy !  Upon  this 
the  archbishop  thought  it  time  to  interfere,  and  commanded  his 
assistants  to  force  him  out  of  the  pulpit,  and  to  consign  him  to  the 
care  of  the  monks  in  the  adjoining  convent.  He  had  not  been  long 
in  this  asylum  when  the  assassins  emploved  by  the  viceroy  found  an 
entrance,  inquiring  loudly  for  Masaniello.  As  soon  as  the  victim 
heard  his  name  pronounced,  he  hastened  to  meet  his  murderers,  ex« 
claimine,  "  Is  it  me  you  look  for,  my  people  ?  Behold,  I  am  here." 
The  only  answer  he  received  was  four  musket  shots,  fiped  upen-him 
at  the  same  time.  He  instantly  fell  dead,  only  uttering  the  words 
"  Ungrateful  traitors !"  as  he  breathed  his  last  Salvator  Gataneo, 
one  of  the  four  assassins,  cut  off  his  head  and  fixed  it  on  a  spear. 
Thus  it  was  carried  through  the  streets  of  Naples,  the  murderers 
crying  out  loudly  as  they  went  along,  **  Masaniello  is  dead !  Masa- 
niello  is  dead !  Let  the  King  of  Spain  live,  and  let  nobody  presume 
hereafter  to  name  Masaniello."  The  cowardly  rabble,  who  were  at 
that  very  moment  collected  in  the  church  and  market-place  to  the 
number  of  eight  or  ten  thousand,  made  no  attempt  to  avenge  the 
death  of  their  benefactor ;  nor  was  any  opposition  offered  or  mur- 
mur uttered  when  his  bead,  after  being  carried  in  procession 
through  the  city,  was  thrown  into  a  ditch  called  the  Com  Ditdi. 
His  body  also,  afler  being  dragged  through  all  the  kennek  of 
Naples,  was  thrown  into  another  town  ditch,  lying  without  Porta 
Noiana. 

In  the  meantime,  the  nobility  were  hurrying  in  crowds  to  con- 
gratulate the  viceroy  on  the  death  of  their  mutual  enemy.  Their 
extravagant  demonstrations  of  joy  at  being  rid  of  Masaniello  evi- 
denced how  much  they  dread^  his  power.  The  Duke  of  Arcos 
manifested  his  pious  sense  of  the  great  deliverance  bv  going  in  pro- 
cession with  the  chief  officers  and  magistrates  of  the  kingdom  to  the 
church  of  Carmine,  to  return  Ood  thanks  for  the  cowardly  act  of 
hired  murderers.  The  head  and  blood  of  San  Gtennaro  were  both 
exposed  to  view,  to  grace  the  joyful  solemnity.  At  the  same  time, 
the  confirmation  of  t£e  articles  sworn  to  the  Saturday  before,  was 
proclaimed  by  sound  o£  trumpet  in  the  market-place,  amid  the  loud 
acclamations  of  the  credulous  populace.  They  soon,  however, 
learned,  by  the  publication  of  the  printed  treaty,  how  futile  was 
their  confidence  in  the  justice  to  be  rendered  them  when  their  pro- 
tector was  withdrawn.  By  the  aid  of  Julio  Oenovino's  treachery,  a 
salvo  had  been  inserted  into  the  14th  article,  of  a  tenor  to  make  all 
the  rest  null  and  void,  and  the  Neapolitans,  reduced  to  the  same 
state  of  oppression  as  before,  were  compelled  to  begin  over  again 
the  desperate  struggle  against  Spanish  tyranny. 

In  the  meantime,  one  of  those  quick  transitions,  common  in  all 
popular  demonstrations,  had  taken  place  among  the  volatile  Neapoli- 
tans.   The  day  following  his  death,  the  head  and  body  of  Masaniello 


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OF   MASANIELLO.  366 

were  looked  out  and  joined  together  by  a  few  amongst  his  more  ad- 
venturous and  devoted  followers^  and  an  exhibition  of  them  in  the 
church  of  Carmine  excited  violent  feelings  of  sorrow  and  repentance. 
The  corpse  was  carried  through  the  most  public  streets  of  the  city, 
with  all  the  solemnities  commonly  used  at  the  funeral  of  a  martial 
commander.  It  was  preceded  by  five  hundred  monks,  and  followed 
by  forty  thousand  men-in-arms,  and  almost  as  many  women,  with 
beads  in  their  hands.  As  the  procession  passed  the  palace  of  the 
viceroy,  he  readiljr  conformed  to  the  times,  and  sent  eight  pages 
with  torches  in  their  hands  to  accompany  the  corpse ;  the  Spaniards 
on  euard  were  also  ordered  to  lower  their  ensigns,  and  to  salute  it 
as  It  was  carried  by.  At  last  it  was  brought  back  to  the  cathedral 
church,  and  there  buried,  while  all  the  bells  of  Naples  rung  a 
mournful  peal,  and  passionate  lamentations  were  uttered  by  the  sur- 
rounding multitude.  An  old  writer  quaintly  observes,  that,  "by 
an  unequalled  popular  inconstancy,  Masaniello,  in  less  than  three 
days  was  obeyed  like  a  monarch,  murdered  like  a  villain,  and  re- 
vered like  a  saint." 

Thus  ended  the  unexampled  career  of  Masaniello  of  Amalfi. 
Nother  ancient  nor  modem  history  can  furnish  any  parallel  to  Uie 
brief  brilliance  of  his  sudden  success.  "  Trampling  barefoot  on  a 
thrcme,  and  wearing  a  mariner's  cap  instead  of  a  diaikm,  in  the  space 
of  four  days  he  raised  an  army  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
men,  and  made  himself  master  of  one  of  the  most  populous  cities  in 
the  world;  of  Naples,  the  metropolis  of  so  man^  udr  provinces,  the 
mother  and  the  nurse  of  so  many  illustrious  princes  and  renowned 
heroes.  His  orders  were  without  reply,  his  decrees  without  ap- 
peal, and  the  destiny  of  all  Naples  might  be  said  to  depend  upon 
a  single  motion  of  his  hand."  The  qualifications  that  raised  Masa- 
niello to  such  a  height  of  power  are  variously  stated  by  various 
authors,  according  to  their  nation  and  their  prejudices,  but  the  ac- 
tions he  performed  are  incontrovertible  proofs  of  eminent  abilities. 
Cardinal  Filomarino  was  probably  the  person  amongst  his  contem- 
poraries best  quidified  to  judge  of  Masaniello's  mentdi  capacity ;  he 
professed  himself  often  astonished  at  the  solidity  of  the  nsherman's 
ludgment,  uid  the  subtlety  of  his  contrivances.  One  fact  alone, 
his  dictating  to  seven  secretaries  at  the  same  time,  gives  evidence  of 
rare  command  of  intellect  in  a  statesman  of  six  days'  experience. 

In  summing  up  a  character,  ever  destined  to  remain  in  some  de- 
gree a  mystery  to  posterity,  a  hiffh  place  should  be  allotted  to  the 
moral  qualities  displayed  by  Masaniello  under  circumstances  of 
strong  excitement  and  extraordinary  temptation.  So  strict  was  his 
justice,  that  amongst  the  numerous  deaths  inflicted  by  his  orders, 
not  one  suffered  who  did  not  deserve  it ;  so  noble  his  disinterested- 
ness, that  in  the  midst  of  fflittering  piles  of  wealth,  he  remained  as 
poor  as  in  his  original  conoition* 

FVom  the  harmony  existing  between  his  mental  and  moral  quali- 
ties, it  may  be  fairly  inferred  that  a  character  of  otherwise  apparent 
completeness,  could  not  have  been  deficient  in  the  strength  requisite 
to  support  the  elevation  attained  by  its  own  unaided  efforts.  The 
metapnydcal  student  of  human  nature  will  find  it  far  easier  to  be- 
lieve in  a  physical  cause  for  Masaniello's  sudden  derangement.  There 
are  some  discrepancies,  some  inconsistencies,  not  possible  even  to 
our  fidlen  humanity. 


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366 
AN  OLD   MAN'S   RECOLLECTIONS 

OF  THE 

PASTORAL  CANTONS  OF  SWITZERLAND. 
EDITED  BT  MB8.  PEROT  SnfNBTT. 

It  was  a  day  of  rejoicings,  and  the  people  were  assembled  from 
the  most  distant  parts  of  the  Inner  Rhodes.  For  those  who  live  much 
in  what  is  called  society,  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  conceive  the  exquisite 
enjoyment  which  these  simple  people,  dwelling  the  greater  part  of  the 
year  in  solitary  habitations,  derive  from  this  one  day  of  social  enjoy- 
ment, on  which  they  see  at  once  many  thousands  of  their  country 
people* 

Old  acquaintances  and  friends  who  have  not  seen  each  other  for  the 
whole  year  meet  on  those  occasions,  and  pass  a  few  happy  hours  toge- 
ther. Wives  accompany  their  husbands,  that  they  may  take  this  oppor« 
tnnity  of  purchasing  at  the  well-stodced  booths  various  articles  of 
which  they  stand  in  need;  the  girls,  of  course,  find  some  excuse  for 
visiting  a  spot  where  they  are  sure  to  meet  all  the  young  men  of  the 
country ;  in  short,  almost  the  whole  population  of  the  litde  state  finds 
its  way  for  some  reason  or  other  to  this  centre  of  attraction. 

The  human  tide  flowed  rapidly  through  the  narrow  street  beneath 
my  windows,  so  that  I  saw  a  perpetual  succession  of  new  fuces.  Every 
moment  friends  were  meeting,  and  cordially  shaking  each  other's  han^ 
with  faces  beaming  with  joy.  Here  was  a  orowd  assembled  round  a 
booth  where  was  displayed  a  large  assortment  of  cowbells,  and  I  noticed 
that  those  who  were  about  to  purchase,  tried  the  sound  of  each  with 
the  most  patient  attention  to  ascertain  which  harmonised  together.  In 
another  place  a  shepherd  lad  would  keep  hovering  round  a  stall,  where 
a  beautiful  pair  of  yeUow  breeches  was  temptingly  exhibited,  and  after 

foing  away  and  returning  asain  two  or  three  times,  would  at  length 
nd  them  irresistible,  and  t&e,  them  for  better  or  worse.  In  some 
places  were  groups  of  merry  children  at  play,  in  others  young  men 
and  maidens  engaged  in  a  rustic  flirtation;  so  that,  from  my  post  of 
observation  I  had  ample  materials  of  amusement  till  the  hour  arrived 
which  was  appointed  for  the  grand  meeting. 

The  Lanaigemeine  of  Inner  Aspenzell  was  to  take  place  under  the 
open  sky,  on  a  spacious  green  with  two  sides  surrounded  by  houses, 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  village.  The  windows  were  all  occupied  at 
an  early  hour  by  curious  spectators,  and  the  trees  and  posts  were 
loaded  with  strangers  and  boys. 

While  the  peoj^e  were  coUectinff  on  the  green,  the  masistratest  of 
whom  there  are  ten,  had  assembled  in  the  town-hall,  whence  they 
proceeded  to  the  church,  and,  after  the  service,  advanced  in  procession 
to  the  assembly,  attended  by  some  drums  and  fifes,  and  a  few  men  car- 
rying halberts ;  but  nothing  could  exceed  the  plainness  of  their  ap« 
pearance.  At  that  time  an  elaborate  sort  of  dress,  with  powder  and 
curls,  was  worn  all  over  Europe,  and  men  in  ofiice  especially  were 
everywhere  distinguished  by  a  striking  and  mostly  showy  costume. 
These  dignitaries  had  their  hair  cut  short,  had  no  powder,  and  weire 


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PASTOEAL   CANTONS  OF  SWITZERLAND.  867 

covered  by  long  black  mantles^  that  made  tbem  look  somethiDg  like 
mourners  at  a  fdneral. 

The  LandammaD>  the  highest  officer  of  the  coontry,  took  possession 
of  a  wooden  platform  raised  a  few  feet  from  the  ground,  and  painted 
in  the  state  colours,  black  and  white ;  at  each  end  of  the  platform  was 
placed  a  sword  of  formidable  dimensions. 

By  the  side  of  the  diief  magistrate  stood  a  secretary  and  another 
officer  called  a  Landwebel ;  and  a  great  book  lay  open  berore  them,  des- 
tined to  contain  the  minutes  of  the  proceedings.  The  people  were 
ranged  round  in  a  great  semicircle,  and  so  that  every  man  was  in  his 
own  rhode  or  clan,  which  does  not  depend  upon  the  place  where  he 
may  be  living,  but  upon  the  family  to  which  he  belongs,  as  the  people 
are  divided  in  races  according  to  the  names  they  bear. 

The  Landamman  opened  the  meetine  by  a  speech ;  but  the  bustle  of 
perpetual  new  arrivals  prevented  my  hearing  a  word.  After  this,  the 
whole  assembly  took  off  their  hats,  and,  kneeling  down,  prayed  for  the 
divine  blessing  on  their  proceedings.  When  the  prayer  was  ended, 
the  Landamman  enquired  of  the  hoM  or  captain  of  each  rhode  whether 
he  was  content  with  the  accounts  of  the  past  year  now  laid  before 
them,  and  receiving,  I  presume,  a  satisfactory  answer,  proceeded  to 
the  business  next  to  be  attended  to,  namely,  the  election  of  new  magis- 
trates, or  the  confirmation  of  the  old. 

The  Landamman  now  left  his  place,  and  it  was  proclaimed  aloud  by 
the  secretary,  or  clerk,  that  the  assembly  was  about  to  proceed  to  the 
election  of  another  chief  magistrate.  He  then  demanded  whom  they 
meant  to  name  for  this  office,  and  with  one  accord  all  voices  shouted 
the  name  of  the  Landamman  who  had  iust  left  the  chair.  The  clerk 
then  cried  out,  **  Let  all  who  find  good  that  our  present  Landamman 
shall  continue  to  reign  hold  up  their  hands."  And  immediately  uprose 
the  hands  of  the  whole  assembly.  The  Landamman  being  then  declared 
to  be  duly  elected,  took  his  place  win^  and  the  meeting  went  on  to 
elect  the  officers  next  in  dignity.  What  we  may  call  the  ministry  con- 
sists of  seven  members,  but  every  rhode  sends  eight  members  to  the 
great  and  six  to  the  little  council,  which  constitutes  the  executive 
power,  and  these  also  have  to  be  elected  to  it  by  the  general  assembly, 
as  well  as  a  captain  for  each  rhode. 

After  the  election  of  the  government  officers  was  concluded,  the 
landamman  rose  to  propose  that  a  new  hish  road  should  be  made  from 
the  canton  of  Appenzell  to  the  valley  of  Uie  Rhine.  All  the  roads  in 
the  country,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  in  outer  rhodes,  are  or  were 
then  passable  merely  for  foot-passengers  and  horses ;  and  all  goods, 
had,  therefore^  to  be  transported  on  pack-saddles,  —  a  much  more 
expensive  method,  of  course,  than  by  wsgcms. 

It  appeared  that  both  exports  ana  imports  travelled  in  the  direction 
of  the  Rhine,  because  that  was  the  side  on  which  a  highroad  approach- 
ed the  nearest  to  the  eanton,  and  that  a  new  road  of  about  twelve 
miles  lon^  would  open  a  very  convenient  communication  with  the  great 
road  leading  to  the  lake  of  Constance,  the  Tyrol>  and  the  Grisons. 

Each  of  the  magistrates  first  declared  his  opinion  of  the  measure,-— 
some  being  for,  others  against  it.  The  people  appeared  to  take  a  lively 
interest  in  the  discussion,  and  by  degrees  the  voices  rose  higher  and 
high^,  and  the  whole  assembly  became  agitated  like  one  of  their  lakes 
in  a  stormy  wind.  Some  thought  that  this  road  would  prove  of  great 
advantage  to  trade  and  industry,  others  feared  it  would  open  the  way 


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368  BECOLLECnONS  OF  THE 

for  an  enem  v  to  reach  the  heart  of  the  republic ;  many  had  a  vested 
interest  in  the  pack-saddles,  and  dreaded  the  loss  of  the  profit  accnung 
to  them  from  the  present  system  of  carriage ;  others  opposed  it  merely 
from  a  selfish  unwillingness  to  give  either  labour  or  money  for  an  un- 
dertaking from  which  they  expected  no  immediate  personal  advantage, 
and  some  determined  conservatives  thought  that,  as  the  country  had 

Sone  on  very  well  without  roads  for  so  many  hundred  jeus,  it  might 
o  so  stilL  Occasionally  two  or  three  of  the  captains  of  rhodes  would 
begin  to  spedc  at  a  time,  and  some  orators  wotud  scream  and  gesticu- 
late so  venemently,  that  I  expected  everv  moment  they  would  enforce 
their  eloquence  with  their  mignty  fists.  Ten  times  did  the  Landamman 
begin, — "  Dear,  faithful  countrymen ! — ^respected  friends  and  gentle- 
men !" — But  he  never  could  get  any  further  for  the  uproar.  Those 
who  w«re  unacquainted  with  we  character  of  the  people,  would  have 
thought  frequently  that  the  parliament  must  inevitably  end  in  agen^^ 
fight.  At  lengthy  however,  the  storm  raged  itself  out,  the  Landamman 
obtained  silence,  and  ordered  a  show  of  hands  for  and  asainst  the  pro- 
ject, by  which  it  appeared  that  "  the  Noes  had  it," — and  then  all  were 
good  mends  again. 

Another  affair  of  which  I  took  note  was  the  appointment  of  the  derk 
and  landwebel,  who  besged  to  be  reinstated  in  their  places  in  the  most 
humble  terms.  The  clerk  made  a  long,  rambling  speech,  in  which  he 
poured  out  a  profusion  of  thanks  for  his  last  year's  election,  as  well  as 
oegged  for  a  renewal  of  the  favour,  with  a  humility  as  profound  as  that 
of  the  most  servile  courtier.  I  felt  no  surprise  at  this  ;  for  wherever 
the  sovereign  power  resides,  there  will  be  round  men  willing  to  crawl 
in  the  dust  betore  it. 

After  their  election,  the  landamman  administered  an  oath  to  these 
functionaries,  who  swore,  with  uncovered  head,  and  three  fingers  up- 
lifted, ''  to  do  all  in  their  power  to  advance  the  honour  and  interest  of 
the  republic  in  all  things,  and  to  turn  away  whatever  might  be  hurtful 
to  it ;  to  protect  the  widow  and  orphan,  and  all  who  had  need  of  pro- 
tection ;  to  help  every  one  to  their  rights  as  far  as  possible,  and  also  to 
judge  and  condemn  ofienders  accor£ng  to  the  laws  of  the  land  and 
their  own  consciences,  and  to  be  influenced  neither  by  friendship  nor 
enmity,  by  bribe  nor  gift ;  to  take  no  pensions  or  presents  from  princes 
or  great  men,  and  to  do  what  'in  them  lay  to  see  that  every  man  in 
ofiice  performed  his  duty  fiaithfully  to  his  country." 

In  the  evening,  after  presenting  some  letters  to  the  family  of  <me 
of  the  members  of  the  government,  and  meeting  with  a  most  kind 
and  cordial  reception,  I  returned  to  my  inn,  but,  as  I  approached 
the  house,  I  was  met  by  the  sounds  of  mirth  and  revelry,  and,  on  en- 
tering, found  it  thronged  with  company,  and  resounding  with  music 
I  was  told  that  it  was  uie  custom  for  the  Appenzellers  to  conclude  thus 
their  day  of  sovereignty,  when  the  young  people  pass  the  night  in 
dancing  and  singing,  and  **  wont  go  home  till  morning." 

I  made  m  v  way  through  a  crowd  of  pretty  girls  to  the  dancing-room 
—a  space,  alas,  hx  too  small  for  the  vast  desires  of  the  dancing  multi- 
tude— ^when  a  young  fellow  led  me  up  to  his  bride-elect,  and  said, 
**  Do  me  the  honour  to  dance  a  turn  or  two  with  my  little  girL" 
Another  did  the  same  with  his  wife,  and  I  remained  for  some  time  a 
well-pleased  spectator  of  the  movements  of  the  healthy,  happy,  bloom- 
ing crowd,  whose  every  look  and  gesture  proclaimed  their  possession  of 
a  **  sound  mind  in  a  sound  body,"  until  at  last  the  intolerable  heat 


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PASTORAL  CANTOKS  OF  SWITZERLAND.      369 

droTe  me  awaj  to  tbe  refreshing  tranquillity  afforded  me  beneath  the 
hospitable  roof  of  my  new  frien£,  and  of  which  the  inn  did  not>  during 
that  night,  hold  out  the  most  distant  prospect. 

The  people  of  Appensell  Inner  Rhodes^  when  I  was  there,  lived  al- 
most whoUy  by  the  produce  of  their  flocks  and  herds.  The  experiment 
of  growing  a  tew  potatoes  had  only  lately  been  tried,  and,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  these,  a  little  oats  and  Darley  was  all  that  was  raised  from  a 
soil  which  would,  in  my  opinion,  have  rewarded  a  more  diligent  culti« 
yation.  The  fruit-trees,  it  was  said,  were  often  destroyed  by  the  frosts ; 
but  I  found  that  those  who  bestowed  sufficient  care  on  their  culture, 
generally  reaped  a  yery  ample  produce ;  and,  notwithstanding  what  I 
had  heard  of  the  severity  of  the  winter,  I  found  a  great  number  of 
cherry-trees  in  full  blossom  at  the  b^nnine  of  May. 

The  manufacturing  industry  of  Inner  Rhodes  I  found,  as  I  expect- 
ed,  at  the  lowest  grade  as  compared  with  its  extraordinary  development 
in  the  outer  half  canton.  I  say  I  expected  this,  because  it  appears  to 
be  the  invariable  rule  that,  where  they  are  brought  into  immediate 
contact,  manuflEu^res  desert  catholic  and  take  up  their  abode  in  pro- 
testant  communities.  To  investigate  the  cause  of  this  phenomenon 
would,  perhaps,  lead  us  into  too  long  a  discussion  for  the  present ;  but 
I  must  own  tnat  the  way  in  which  we  protestants  are  in  the  habit  of 
accounting  for  it,  by  declaring  shortly  that  it  is  the  natural  effect  of 
Catholicism  to  produce  slothfulness,  does  not  appear  satisfoctory  to  me, 
since  the  whole  progress  made  in  Europe  in  industry  and  the  useful 
arts,  from  times  of  complete  barbarism  up  to  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  was  made  unoer  the  influence  of  Catholicism.  In  Appenzell 
manufactures,  it  appears,  were  more  flourishing  at  that  period  than 
they  are  now.  In  i537«  there  was  a  grand  exhibition  of  linen  manu- 
factures, under  official  superintendence ;  but,  unluckily,  soon  after 
this,  they  took  to  '*  protecting  industry,"  and  made  a  law  that  all  the 
flax  spun  must  be  made  into  linen  in  the  country  itself,  and  it  is  not 
unlikely  that  this,  and  similar  regulations,  may  liaye  had  much  to  do 
with  their  decay. 

I  was  rather  struck  by  the  fact  that  the  people  of  Inner  Rhodes, 
poor  as  they  were,  did  not  appear  at  all  dazzled  or  rendered  envious  by 
the  superior  wealth  of  their  neighbours.  Was  it  that  they  perceived 
that  the  rapid  increase  of  Outer  Rhodes  in  prosperity  and  population 
had  not  rendered  existence  more  secure ;  that  money  created  as  well  as 
satisfied  wants,  and  has  not  the  power  to  make  men  more  dieerfiil, 
tranquil,  or  content  ? 

The  manufactories  of  the  outer  half  canton  are  exposed  to  vicissi- 
tudes from  occurrences  taking  place  in  distant  countries,  whoUy 
beyond  their  control,  and  which  have  sometimes  left  their  warehouses 
choked  with  their  productions,  and  deprived  thousands  of  workpeople  of 
their  bread,  or  compelled  them  to  work  for  the  lowest  pittance  on  which 
life  can  be  supported.  When  panic  and  stoppsge  of  trade,  occasion- 
ed often  by  politioEd  changes,  and  the  commercial  resulations  of  foreign 
countries  have  shed  their  baleful  influence  on  the  land,  all  its  riches 
and  industry  have  not  protected  it  from  scarcity,  and  even  famine.  In 
the  years  1771  and  '72.  distress  had  actually  reached  this  terrible  point 
in  Outer  Rhodes,  while  their  poorer  neighbours  suffered  scarcity,  in- 
deed, but  were  secured  from  anything  uke  starvation  by  their  flocks 
and  herds.  Possibly  Uiese  facts  have  not  escaped  the  observation  of  the 
Inner  Appenseller,  and  rendered  him  content  to  remain  within  the 


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370  BECJOLLECmONS  OP  THE 

nalrrow  circle  of  his  own  simple  life,  rather  than  encounter  the  agitating 
yiclssitudes  of  his  neighbours. 

One  branch  of  inddstry  I  saw  carried  on  in  Inner  Appenzell,  which 
I  have  never  seen  in  any  other  country.  Along  the  banks  of  the  Sit- 
ter lie  rows  of  little  gardens,  in  which  are  kept  such  enormous  flocks  of 
snails,  that  the  sound  of  their  feeding  on  the  leaves  can  be  plainly 
heard  several  paces  off.  The  young  snails  are  collected  at  the  proper  sea* 
son,  and  Inwught  into  these  gardens,  where  the  owners  feed  them  with 
cabbages,  lettuces,  and  leaves  of  various  kinds,  till  they  become  very 
large  and  fat ;  and  they  are  then  packed  in  barrels,  and  sent  to  the 
convents  in  Swabia,  Bavaria,  and  Austria,  and  even  as  for  as  Vienna, 
where  they  are  considered  as  rather  a  dainty  dish  for  fast  days.  Some 
of  the  dealers  in  snails  have  amassed  a  tolerable  fortune.  The  Capu- 
chins in  the  village  of  Appenzell  feed  for  themselves  a  flock  of  forty  or 
fifty  thousand  snuls. 

The  entire  exports  of  these  diminutive  states  consist,  therefore,  in 
cheese,  butter,  cattle,  skins,  saltpetre,  honey,  and  snails ;  in  exchange 
for  which  the  inhabitants  obtain  all  the  articles  which,  in  their  simple 
mode  of  life,  they  require.  Simple  as  it  is,  however,  when  we  consi- 
der that,  with  the  exception  of  the  above-mentioned  products  and 
butcher's  meatj  absolutely  evervthing  must  be  Imported, — flour  for 
bread  and  other  kinds  of  food,  all  sorts  of  stuff  for  clothing,  leather, 
iron,  and  copper  goods,  glass,  salt,  coffee,  and  wine — that  all  these 
things  must  be  paid  for  from  those  few  exports— ^we  may  conceive 
that  the  inhabitants  of  this  little  republic  are  compelled  to  great  mo- 
deration and  sobriety. 

There  are  or  were  in  this  country,  as  I  mentioned  before,  no  roads 
passable  for  carriages,  and  all  kinds  of  ^oods  are  carried  on  horseback. 
The  whole  number  of  horses  used  for  this  purpose  in  the  entire  canton 
of  Appenzell  belonged  to  only  twenty-seven  owners,  and  but  two  of 
these  uved  in  Inner  Rhodes.  In  their  warehouses  was  stored  up  all 
the  cheese  and  butter  made  in  the  country.  They  generally  make  an 
agreement  with  the  herdsmen  by  the  year,  and  send  the  horses  round 
to  the  mountains  to  collect  it.  The  cheese  was  all  nacked  in  bales  of 
a  size  convenient  for  placing  on  each  side  of  a  wooden  saddle ;  and  I 
often  met  long  lines  of  these  padc-horses,  covered  with  gaily-coloured 
cloths,  and  decorated  with  bells,  so  that  it  might  be  supposed  they 
belonged  to  some  festal  procession. 

Af^  making  myself  pretty  well  acquainted  with  the  country  round 
the  village  of  Appenzell,  I  began  to  feel  my  desire  to  climb  some  of 
the  surrounding  mountains  qdite  irresistible ;  but,  as  the  state  of  the 
weather  made  it  impossible  to  gratify  this  wish  completely,  as  the 
snow  still  lay  even  on  the  less  elevated  peaks,  I  was  obliged  to  content 
myself  with  dimbins  some  of  the  lower  Alps,  in  order  to  make  my 
first  acquaintance  with  the  scenery  that  so  much  attracted  me. 

An  extremely  pretty  path  leads  from  Appenzell  along  the  banks  of 
the  Sitter  to  Weisbad,  (where  there  are  springs  whose  water  is  of  a 
milky  cdour,  and  considered  very  efiicacious  for  many  maladies,)  and 
beyond  this  it  begins  rapidly  to  rise.  About  an  hour  and  a  hairs 
climbing  a  very  rugged  stony  path,  brings  you  to  the  Wild  Church,  as 
it  is  cMed ;  but  bdore  reaching  it,  the  nerves  of  the  wanderer  are  put 
to  a  little  trial.  The  path  gradually  grows  narrower  and  narrower, 
till  it  becomes  a  mere  ledge  along  the  side  of  a  perpendicular  wall  of 
rock.    On  the  right  the  black  precipice  draws  nearer  and  nearer,  till 


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PASTORAL  CANTONS  OF   SWITZERLAND.  371 

3roii  dare  at  last  neither  to  turn  nor  look  round  :  yon  press  anxiously 
close  to  the  rocky  wall,  till  at  last  the  path  vanishes  altogether,  and  its 
place  is  supplied  by  a  few  planks^  forming  a  sort  of  little  wooden  bridge 
across  a  tremendous  chasm,  and  with  nothing  but  a  rope  to  lay  the 
hand  upon  by  way  of  security  for  the  steps.  At  the  ena,  however,  of 
this  fhol  bridge,  nanging  high  in  mid  air,  the  traveller  has  the  satis* 
feiction  of  seeing  a  cottage  opened  to  afford  him  a  refuge,  a  sight  which 
certainly  contributes  not  a  little  to  give  him  courage  to  cross  it.  I 
must  confess  I  breathed  more  freely,  when  I  found  myself  safe  within 
its  hospitable  shelter,  and  looked  back  with  a  sort  of  shivering  pleasure 
on  the  path  I  had  just  traversed. 

On  every  side  high  perpendicular  rocks,  bare  of  tree  or  shrub,  were 
piled  one  above  another,  in  their  forms  having  much  the  appearance 
of  ruined  walls  and  castles,  and  with  a  certain  desolate  grandeur  of 
aspect.  But  among  the  dark  precipices  glittered  far  below  the  silver 
See»lp  lake  and  the  Sitter,  which,  after  forming  several  beautifil  cas- 
cades, wound  its  serpentine  course  through  a  plain,  covered  with  the 
loveliest  green,  and  still  iiirther  animated  by  pretty  houses  and  grazing 
cattle. 

About  thirty  paces  from  the  resting-place  brought  me  to  the  **  wild 
church,"  a  simple  buildiuff,  with  a  little  tower,  containing  a  bell  of  three 
hunted  weight.  Immediately  behind  the  tower  opens  a  rocky  cavern, 
in  which  is  an  altar  of  stone ;  the  sides  are  as  white  as  if  they  wcire 
white-washed  ;  and  before  the  altar  lay  about  twenty  beams  of' wood, 
which  serve  fur  benches  when  the  Appensellers  come  here  to  the  ser- 
vice, which  is  performed  three  times  a-year. 

An  altar  stood  in  this  cavern  as  early  as  the  year  1610 ;  and  in  1656 
an  inhabitant  of  Appenxell  built  the  little  church,  and  retired  from  the 
world  into  the  cavern  behind  it.  At  his  death  he  left  a  sum  of  money 
to  maintain  the  church  and  the  bridge  in  repair,  as  well  as  fifteen 
gulden  a  year  (about  1/.  5^.)  for  any  hermit  who  should  oome  after  him. 
The  cell  was  occupied,  at  the  time  of  my  visit,  by  one  who  paaeed  the 
whole  summer  there.  His  actual  abode  was  a  second  cave,  entered 
through  the  first,  and  containing  a  stove  and  a  bedstead ;  and  his  whole 
occupation  consisted  in  praying  for  the  herdsmen,  and  ringing  the  bell 
^y^  times  a-day,  to  call  to  prayer  those  who  might  be  scattered  about 
the  Alps.  On  Sundays  and  holidays  they  generally  go  up  to  this 
chapel,  and  in  very  baa  weather  they  sometimes  seek  an  asylum  there. 
For  the  services  he  rendered  them,  the  **  Brother  of  the  Bock  "  re- 
ceived»  I  was  told,  cheese  and  buttermilk,  and  permission  to  let  his 
two  goats  graze  where  he  will.  In  the  winter,  he  lived  at  Appeniell, 
and  maintained  himself  by  spinning,  or  some  other  work. 

Behind  the  hermit's  cell  opened  a  third  and  more  spacious  <me, 
about  two  hundred  feet  long  and  sixty  broad,  and  in  some  parts  as 
much  as  ten  feet  high,  but  in  others  so  low,  that  I  was  unable  to  stand 
upright  in  it.  .  The  roof  was  covered  with  strangely  shaped  stalactites, 
from  which  was  continually  dropping  a  dear  water,  received  in  hollowed 
trunks  of  trees  that  had  been  placed  there  for  the  purpose.  This  cavern 
ivas  divided  into  two  apartments,  and  the  second  was  by  no  means  easy 
of  access,  from  the  darkness,  and  the  masses  of  fiEdlen  rock  that  lay 
strewed  upon  the  sround.  On  reaching  it,  however,  I  found  the 
ground  ascended  a  uttle,  and  I  at  length  emerged  upon  a  beautiful 
open,  grassy  Alp;  and  threw  myself  down  upon  the  soft  turf,  to 
enjoy  to  the  utmost  the  splendid  prospect,  the  effect  of  which  was  of 


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372  BECOLLECnONS  OF  THE 

course  more  strikiiiff  after  the  darkness  of  the  cayem.  The  whole 
canton  of  AppenzelT  lav  here  spread  before  me,  like  a  picture  set  in 
the  glittering  frame  of  the  lake  of  Ck>nstance. 

It  was  long  before  I  would  resolve  to  leave  a  spot  where  I  thought 
I  should  never  be  tired  with  gazinff,  but  when  I  did  so^  and  climbed 
the  nearest  summit>  I  was  rewardedwith  a  view  still  more  extensive 
and  magnificent,  including  even  the  countless  peaks  of  the  Tyrol  and 
Garinthia. 

There  are  in  this  inner  part  of  Appenzell  six  Alps,  which  are  com« 
mon  land  or  aUmends,  as  they  are  called,  on  which  every  countryman 
has  a  rieht  to  drive  his  cows ;  but  as  it  has  been  found  that  the  rich 
who  had  large  herds  to  send  gained  a  much  greater  advantage  bv  this 
right  than  the  poor>  who  had  only  one  or  two  cows,  it  was  settled  that 
every  one  should  pay  fifteen  kreuzers,  or  fivepence,  for  each  cow  that 
he  drove  up  to  the  Alp. 

Some  h^smen  do  not  possess  a  foot  of  land  of  their  own,  beyond 
what  their  house  stands  oi| ;  and  they  have  to  send  men  about  Uie 
country  to  find  out  where  good  hay  is  to  be  met  with, — ^who  get  it  in 
at  the  best  time,  in  dry  weather  or  wet,  and  so  on  ;  and  in  autumn, 
when  the  cows  leave  the  pasture,  they  and  their  beasts  betake  them- 
selves to  one  and  another  whose  hay  they  have  purchased,  and  change 
their  abode  six  or  seven  times  in  the  winter.  Besides  sometimes 
shelter  for  his  cows,  he  gets  board  and  lodging  for  himself,  hia 
wife,  and  his  children ;  and  in  return,  as  well  as  the  sum  of  money 
agreed  on,  he  gives  of  the  milk,  whey,  and  cheese,  as  much  as  is 
required  for  the  whole  household. 

As  soon  as  the  young  year  has  again  covered  the  meadows  with 
srass  and  flowers— out  again  goes  the  senn  and  his  cows,  and  resumes 
his  open  air  life  on  the  mountains  until  the  return  of  autumn.  It 
would  seem  that  these  perpetual  wanderings  contribute  to  maintain 
the  health  and  cheerfulness,  for  they  are  fine  jolly  looking  fellows— 
but  their  days,  nevertheless,  do  not  always  flow  on  in  undisturbed 
careless  Arcadian  tranquillity*  Even  here,  in  this  simple  pastoral 
land,  the  "  accursed  thirst  of  gold,"  and  the  selfishness  of  the  rich  will 
often  disturb  the  peace  of  these  poor  families.  Sometimes  it  happens 
that  the  spring  is  very  late  in  making  its  appearance,  or  there  will  be 
a  relapse  into  cold  weather,  after  the  senn  has  gone  out  with  his  herds 
to  the  mountains,  and  such  a  heavy  fall  of  snow  as  will  compel  him  to 
drive  them  back  again. 

If  he  have  no  land  at  all  of  his  own,  and  no  stock  of  hay  to  fall  back 
upon  in  an  emergency,  he  will  of  course  be  entirely  at  the  mercy  of 
those  who  have,  and  compelled  to  pay  whatever  they  require,  m  see 
his  cattle  perish ;  and  it  sometimes  happens  that  the  cruel  exorbitance 
of  these  hay  usurers  involves  the  poor  senn  in  debt  frpm  which  he 
never  escapes* 

The  genuine  race  of  Appensell  cows  is  usually  brownuind  black,  but 
the  senn  takes  pleasure  in  having  a  variety  of  colour  in  bis  herd,  and 
if  he  can  will  have  some  of  a  ydlowish  dun  colour,  and  at  least  one 
black-and-white.  The  cattle  are  beautifully  kept,  so  currv-combed 
and  polished,  and  look  so  smooth,  and  clean,  and  healthy,  tnat  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  stroke  their  shiniuffbair,  and  observe  their  lively  looks,  and 
free  animated  movements.  The  relation  between  them  and  their 
owners  is  that  of  a  reciprocal  service  and  kindness.  The  cow  gives 
the  herdsman  all  that  he  possesses,  and  is  in  return  tenderly  cared  for. 


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PASTORAL  CANTONS  OF  SWITZERLAND.  373 

and  loved  like  a  child— or  sometimes^  perbaps>  rather  more.  Never 
would  he  think  of  raising  his  hand  against  her,  or  even  of  carrying  a 
whip  or  a  stick  as  a  means  of  menace.  His  voice  alone  is  sufficient  to 
l^ide  and  rule  the  whole  herd.  In  short,  the  cow  in  Appenzell  en- 
joys the  respect  and  consideration  which  of  right  belongs  to  her  as  the 
most  useful  animal  in  nature. 

The  Appenzeller  b  not  content  with  the  natural  beauty  of  his 
cow8>  but  seeks  to  bestow  on  them  also  the  advantages  of  dress,  and 
gratifies  his  vanity  by  adorning  his  favourites  with  broad  leathern 
thongs,  handsomely  worked,  to  which  bells  are  attached,  taking  the 
same  pride  in  their  £udiionable  appearance  that  a  nobleman  might  do 
in  the  rich  liveries  of  his  servants,  and  sometimes,  it  may  be  feared, 
that  his  love  of  finery  is  carried  even  to  extravagance  and  sinful  vanity. 

A  great  point  is,  as  I  have  said,  that  the  bells  should  sound  harmo- 
niously together;  and  to  all  the  markets  held  in  Appenzell,  there 
come  Tyrolese  with  collections  of  bells  of  all  sizes,  ana  embroidered 
leather  bands,  with  a  buckle  to  fasten  them  round  the  cow's  neck.  The 
whole  afiPair  complete,  not  unfrequently  costs  as  much  as  140  gulden ; 
whilst  the  dress  of  the  owner  himself,  in  his  grandest  state,  never  ex- 
ceeds twenty.  The  largest  bell  is  generally  given  to  the  ''  beauti^l 
black  cow,"  and  the  next  to  the  two  beauties  next  in  succession ;  but 
they  are  not  allowed  to  appear  in  this  full-dress  every  day,  but  only  on 
particular  occasions,  such  as  the  moving  out  to  the  Alps  m  the  spring, 
or  returning  from  them  in  the  autumn,  or  in  the  winter,  passing  from 
one  farm  to  another.  The  procession  moves  along  in  regular  order ; 
first,  the  ^enn  in  his  white  snirt,  coloured  wabtooat,  and,  even  in  win- 
ter, his  sleeves  rolled  up  above  the  elbow,  his  gaily -coloured  braces, 
and  yellow  trowsers,  and  a  handsomely-cut  wooden  milk-porringer 
hanging  over  his  shoulder.  On  he  marches,  generally  singing  at  the 
top  of  his  voic^  and  followed  first  bv  three  or  four  fine  goats ;  then 
comes  the  reiening  belle  of  the  herd  with  the  largest  bells,  then  the 
beauties  of  inferior  lustre,  then  the  bull  carrying  the  milking-stool 
upon  his  horns,  and^  lastly,  a  sledge  with  the  remainder  of  the  dairy 
furniture. 

I  could  not  help  noticing  the  proud  and  self-complacent  demeanour 
of  the  cows,  en  grande  parure,  and  if  one  may  believe  the  accounts  of 
the  people,  they  not  only  feel  pride  and  vanity,  but  are  tormented  by 
envy  and  jealousy,  and  mil  do  their  utmost  to  persecute  a  fortunate 
rival,  and  thrust  at  and  gore  her  with  their  horns  till  they  either  get 
the  bells  restored,  or  are  banished  from  the  herd. 

The  renowned  herdsman's  sonff  of  the  Swiss  mountains,  which  has 
become  known  all  over  Europe  under  the  name  of  the  Ranz  des  Faches, 
is  frequently  heard  in  Inner  Appenzell.  It  is,  unquestionably,  as 
old  as  the  population  of  these  mountains^  and  has  come  down  to  the 
present  generation  from  the  first  herdsmen  who  inhabited  them ;  so 
that  there  is  not  the  remotest  probability  of  its  having  been,  as  has 
sometimes  been  supposed,  originally  a  dance-tune.  It  arose  obviously 
in  the  most  simple  and  natural  manner.  In  these  wild  solitudes, 
where  there  are  no  other  bounds  to  the  pastures  than  rocks  and  pre- 
cipices, the  cows  would  of  course  wander  about  in  all  directions  in 
search  of  fresh  herbs  and  grass,  and  it  would  be  absolutely  impossible 
to  drive  them  in  two  or  Uiree  times  a  day  to  be  milked. 

Necesiity,  therefore,  has  compelled  the  herdsman  to  hit  upon  some 
method  of  collecting  his  cattl^  and,  in  the  mere  tones  of  his  voice,  he 

VOL.   XXIII.  B   B 


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374  RETURN   OF  THE   BIRDS. 

has  found  a  most  effectual  one.  The  Appensellere  call  it  enticing  the 
cows ;  and  that  it  has  this  effect  is  obvious  from  the  manner  in  which 
they  come  hastening  from  all  comers  at  the  sound.  It  is>  of  course, 
impossible  to  judge  of  the  effect  of  this  melody,  without  hearinjg  it  in 
its  native  land ;  but,  among  these  mountains,  where  nature  sits  en- 
throned in  primeval  majesty  and  beautv>  and  in  the  perfectly  still 
and  most  pure  and  elastic  atmosphere,  it  has  sometimes  occasioned  me 
indescribable  pleasure  to  listen  to  its  clear,  simple  tones,  and  the  re« 
sponsive  harmony  of  the  silver-sounding  bells. 

Now,  I  am  told,  when  Switzerland  has  been  for  so  many  years 
a  regular  show  country,  overrun  by  hordes  of  tourists  hungering  after 
the  picturesque,  you  cannot  see  a  group  of  peasant-girls  upon  the  moun- 
tains, without  their  immediately  striking  up  the  **  Ranz  des  Vaches  " 
as  a  sort  of  **  Open  Sesame ! "  to  the  travellers'  pocket,  and  in  that  case 
I  should  not  care  much  to  hear  it.  Indeed,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  to 
Switzerland,  as  well  as  to  her  neighbour,  Italy,  beauty  has  been  in 
some  measure  a  fatal  gift,  luring  mere  pleasure-seekers,  gazers,  and  ad- 
mirers— not  true  lovers— but  those  whose  presence  destroys  that 
beauty's  highest  charm.  Here 's  a  fine  moral  to  conclude  with  I  Is  it 
not  susceptible  of  another  more  important  application  ? 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  BIRDS. 

BT  ALFRED   CEOWQUILL, 

Thet  return,  they  return,  with  their  plumage  so  gay. 
To  the  copse,  to  the  meadowf  ;  and  on  the  light  spray. 
Amidst  the  wild  heather,  and  golden  topped  grain, 
On  the  banks  of  the  streamlet  they  Ye  with  us  again. 

In  the  midst  of  the  dark  wood  I  hear  the  loved  cry. 
And  the  leaves  whisper  welcome  to  them  as  they  fly. 
And  the  pale  water-lily  ooquettishlv  dips. 
That  they  may  quaff  pearly  drops  trom  her  white  lips. 

How  they  rise,  how  they  float  in  the  bright  golden  ray. 
As  they  soar  in  the  ether  of  sweet-breathed  young  day  ! 
How  their  wings  wave  a  welcome  to  Nature's  fair  face 
As  they  revel  so  free  in  yon  ^orious  space  I 

Pretty  birds,  pretty  birds,  though  you  fly  without  fear. 
Don*t  forget  that  the  First  of  ^ptember  is  near ; 
Remember  the  small  double  barrel  I  Ve  got, 
With  Pigou*s  best  powder,  and  hatsful  of  shot.     * 

I  have  borrowM  two  pointer  dogs,  staunch,  good,  and  true, 
Who  will  both  be  out  with  me  to  point  me  out  you  ; 
So  I  give  you  fair  warning,  if  you  see  my  face, 
That  I  never  go  home  without  eight  or  ten  brace. 

I  *ve  a  shooting  coat,  shooting  box,  shooting  boots,  too, 
So,  the  devil  is  in  it  if  I  can*t  shoot  you  ; 
So,  mind,  I  give  warning,  remember  the  first, 
For  I  mean  to  come  out  with  a  terrible  burst. 


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375 

CAPTAIN  SPIKE; 

OR,    THE    ISLETS    OF  THE    GULF. 

BY   TSm  AUTHOB  OF   "  THE   PILOT,"  **  RED    ROVER/*   ETC. 

The  trattin|^  heart'i  repote,  the  pwadite 
Of  home,  with  all  its  loves,  doth  fate  allow 
The  crown  of  glory  unto  woman's  brow. 

Mrs.  Hkmaws. 


CHAPTBR   XVI. 

It  has  again  become  necessary  to  advance  the  time,  and  we  shall 
take  the  occasion  thus  ofiFered  to  make  a  few  explanations,  touching  cer- 
tain events  which  have  been  passed  over  without  notice. 

The  reason  why  Captain  Mull  did  not  chase  the  yawl  of  the  brig  in 
the  Poughkeepsie,  herself,  was  the  necessity  of  waiting  for  his  own 
boats  that  were  endeavouring  to  regahi  the  sloop  of  war.  It  would  not 
have  done  to  abandon  them,  inasmuch  as  the  men  were  so  much  ex- 
hausted by  the  pull  to  windward,  that  when  they  reached  the  vessel  all 
were  relieved  from  duty  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  As  soon,  however,  as 
the  other  boats  were  hoisted  in,  or  run  up,  the  ship  filled  away,  stood 
out  of  the  passage,  and  ran  down  to  join  the  cutter  of  Wallace,  which 
was  endeavouring  to  keep  its  position  as  much  as  possible,  by  making 
short  tacks  under  close  rc^efed  luggs. 

Spike  had  been  received  on  bmird  the  sloop  of  war,  sent  into  her  sick 
bay,  and  pot  under  the  care  of  the  surgeon  and  his  assistants.  From  the 
first,  these  gentlemen  pronounced  the  hurt  mortal.  The  wounded  man 
was  insensible  most  of  the  time,  until  the  ship  had  beat  up  and  gone 
into  Key  West,  where  he  was  transferred  to  the  regular  hospiul  as  has 
already  been  mentioned. 

The  wreckers  went  out  the  moment  the  news  of  the  calamity  of  the 
Swash  reached  their  ears.  Some  went  in  quest  of  the  doubloons  of  the 
schooner,  and  others  to  pick  up  anything  valuable  that  might  be  dis- 
covered in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  stranded  brig.  It  may  be  mention- 
ed here,  that]  not  much  was  ever  obtained  from  the  brigantine,  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  spars,  the  sails,  and  a  little  rigging ;  but,  in  the  end, 
the  schooner  was  raised,  by  means  of  the  chain  Spike  had  placed 
around  her;  the  cabin  was  ransacked,  and  the  doubloons  were  re- 
covered. As  there  was  no  one  to  claim  the  money,  it  was  quietly 
divided  among  the  conscientious  citizens  present  at  its  revisiting  **  the 
glimpses  of  the  moon,"  making  gold  plenty. 

The  doubloons  in  the  yawl  would  have  been  lost,  but  for  the  sagacity 
of  Mulford.  He  too  well  knew  the  character  of  Spike,  to  believe  he 
would  quit  th|Mkig  without  taking  the  doubloons  with  him.  Acquainted 
with  the  boiSPRe  examined  the  little  locker  in  the  stem  sheets,  and 
found  the  two  bags,  one  of  which  was  probably  the  lawfiil  property  of 
Captain  Spike,  while  the  other,  in  truth,  belonged  to  the  Mexican 
government.  The  last  contained  the  most  gold,  but  the  first  amounted 
to  a  sum  that  our  young  mate  knew  to  be  very  considerable.  Rose  had 
made  him  acquamted  with  the  sex  of  Jack  Tier  since  their  own  mar- 
riage,  and  he  at  once  saw  that  the  claims  of  this  uncouth  wife,  who  was 
so  soon  to  be  a  widow,  to  the  gold  in  question,  might  prove  to  be  as 
good  in  law,  as  they  unquestionably  were  in  morals.     On  representing 

^n^         T 

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376  CAPTAIN  spike; 

the  facts  of  the  case  to  Capt.  Mull*  and  the  lega]  functionaries  at  Key 
West,  it  was  determined  to  relinquish  this  money  to  the  heirs  of  Spike, 
as  indeed  they  must  have  done  under  process,  there  being  no  other 
claimant.  These  doubloons,  however,  did  not  amount  to  the  full  price  of 
the  flour  and  powder  that  composed  the  cargo  of  the  Swash.  The  cargo 
had  been  purchased  with  Mexican  funds,  and  all  that  Spike  or  his  heirs 
could  claim,  was  the  high  freight  for  which  he  had  undertaken  the  deli- 
cate office  of  transporting  those  forbidden  articles,  contraband  of  war,  to 
the  Dry  Tortugas. 

Mulford,  by  this  time,  was  high  in  the  confidence  and  esteem  of  all 
on  board  the  Foughkeepsie.  He  had  frankly  explained  his  whole  con- 
nection with  Spike,  not  even  attempting  to  conceal  the  reluctance  he  had 
felt  to  betray  the  brig,  after  he  had  fully  ascertained  the  fact  of  his 
commander's  treason. 

The  manly  gentleman  with  whom  he  was  now  brought  in  contact, 
entered  into  his  feelings,  and  admitted  that  it  was  an  office  no  one 
could  desire^  to  turn  against  the  craft  in  which  he  sailed.  It  is  true 
they  could  not,  and  would  not  be  traitors,  but  Mulford  had  stopped  far 
short  of  this,  and  the  distinction  between  such  a  character  and  that  of 
an  informer  was  wide  enough  to  satisfy  all  their  scruples. 

Then,  Rose  had  the  greatest  success  with  the  gentlemen  of  the 
Foughkeepsie.  Her  youth,  beauty,  and  modesty,  told  largely  in  her 
favour,  and  the  simple  womanly  affection  she  unconsciously  betrayed  in 
behalf  of  Harry,  touched  the  heart  of  every  observer.  When  the  intel-  ' 
ligence  of  her  aunt's  fate  reached  her,  the  sorrow  she  manifested  was  so 
profound  and  natural,  that  every  one  sympathised  with  her  grief.  Nor 
would  she  be  satisfied  unless  Mulford  would  consent  to  go  in  search  of  the 
bodies.  The  latter  knew  the  hopelessness  of  such  an  excursion,  but  he 
could  not  refuse  to  comply.  He  was  absent  on  that  melancholy  duty, 
therefore,  at  the  moment  of  the  scene  related  in  our  last  chapter,  and 
did  not  return  until  after  that  which  we  are  now  about  to  lay  before  the 
reader.  Mrs.  Budd,  Biddy,  and  all  of  those  who  perished  after  the  yawl 
got  clear  of  the  reef,  were  drowned  in  deep  water,  and  no  more  was  ever 
seen  of  any  of  them ;  or  if  wreckers  did  pass  them,  they  did  not  stop  to 
bury  the  dead.  It  was  different,  however,  with  those  who  were  first 
sacrificed  to  Spike's  selfishness.  They  were  drowned  on  the  reef,  and 
Harry  did  actually  recover  the  bodies  of  the  Sefior  Montefalderon,  and 
of  Josh,  the  steward ;  they  had  washed  upon  a  rock  that  is  bare  at  low 
water.  He  took  them  both  to  the  Dry  Tortugas,  and  had  them  interred 
along  with  the  other  dead  at  that  place.  Don  Juan  was  placed  side  by 
side  with  his  unfortunate  countryman,  the  master  of  his  equally  un- 
fortunate schooner. 

While  Harry  was  absent,  and  thus  employed.  Rose  wept  much,  and 
prayed  more.  She  would  have  felt  herself  almost  alouj  in  the  world, 
but  for  the  youth  to  whom  she  had  so  recently,  less  than  a  week  before, 
plighted  her  faith  in  wedlock.  That  new  tie,  it  is  true,  was  of  sufficient 
importance  to  counteract  many  of  the  ordinary  feelings  of  her  situation, 
and  she  now  turned  to  it  as  the  one  which  absorbed  most  of  the  future 
duties  of  her  life.  Still,  she  missed  the  kindness,  the  solitude, 
even  the  weaknesses  of  her  aunt,  and  the  terrible  manner  in  which  Mrs. 
Budd  had  perished,  made  her  shudder  with  horror,  whenever  she 
thought  of  it  Poor  Biddy,  too,  came  in  for  her  share  of  the  regrets. 
Thb  faithful  creature,  who  had  been  in  the  relict's  service  ever  since 


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OB,   THE  ISLETS  OF  THE  GULF.  377 

Rose's  infaocy,  had  become  endeared  to  her,  in  «pite  of  her  uncouth 
manners  and  confused  ideas^  by  the  warmth  of  her  heart,  and  the  singular 
truth  of  her  feelings.  Biddy,  of  all  her  family,  had  come  alone  to 
America,  leaving  behind  her  not  only  brothers  and  sisters,  but  parents 
living.  Each  year  did  she  remit  to  the  last  a  moiety  of  her  earnings ; 
and  many  a  half  dollar  that  had  come  firom  Rose's  pretty  little  hand, 
bad  been  converted  into  gold,  and  forwarded  on  the  same  pious  errand 
to  the  green  island  of  her  nativity.  Ireland,  unhappy  country!  At 
this  moment,  what  are  not  the  dire  necessities  of  thy  poor  ?  Here> 
from  the  midst  of  abundance,  in  a  land  that  God  has  blessed  in  its  pro- 
ductions far  beyond  the  limits  of  human  wants,  a  land  in  which  fiumine 
was  never  known,  do  we  at  this  moment  hear  thy  groans,  and  listen  to 
tales  of  suffering  that  to  us  seem  almost  incredible.  In  the  midst  of 
these  chilling  narratives,  our  eyes  fall  on  an  appeal  to  the  English 
nation,  that  appears  in  what  it  is  the  fashion  of  some  to  term  the  first 
journal  of  Europe^  (!)  in  behalf  of  thy  suffering  people.  A  worthy  ap- 
peal to  the  charity  of  England  seldom  fails,  but  it  seems  to  us  that  one 
sentiment  of  this  might  have  been  altered,  if  not  spared.  The  English 
are  asked  to  be  ^*  forgetful  of  the  past,"  and  to  come  forward  to  the  relief 
of  their  suffering  fellow-subjects.  We  should  have  written  **  mindful 
of  the  past"  in  its  stead.  We  say  this  in  charity,  as  well  as  in  truth. 
We  come  of  English  blood,  and  if  we  claim  to  share  in  all  the  ancient 
renown  of  that  warlike  and  enlightened  people,  we  are  equally  bound  to 
share  in  the  reproaches  that  original  misgovemment  has  inflicted  on 
thee.  In  this  latter  sense,  then,  thou  hast  a  right  to  our  sympathies, 
and  they  are  not  withheld. 

As  has  been  already  said,  we  now  advance  the  time  eight  and  forty 
hours,  and  again  transfer  the  scene  to  that  room  in  the  hospital  which 
was  occupied  by  Spike.  The  approaches  of  death,  during  the  interval 
just  named,  had  been  slow  but  certain.  The  suigeons  had  announced 
that  the  wounded  man  could  not  possibly  survive  the  coming  night,  and 
he,  himself,  had  been  made  sensible  that  his  end  was  near.  It  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  add,  that  Stephen  Spike,  conscious  of  his  vigour 
and  strength,  in  command  of  his  brig,  and  bent  on  the  pursuits  of  worldly 
gains,  or  of  personal  gratification,  was  a  very  different  person  from  him 
who  now  lay  stretched  on  his  pallet  in  the  hospital  of  Key  West,  a  dying 
man.  By  the  side  of  his  bed,  still  sat  his  strange  nurse ;  less  peculiar 
in  appearance,  however,  than  when  last  seen  by  the  reader.  Rose 
Budd  had  been  ministering  to  the  ungainly  externals  of  Jack  Tier.  She 
now  wore  a  cap,  thus  concealing  the  short  grey  bristles  of  her  hair,  and 
lending  to  her  countenance  a  little  of  that  softness  which  is  a  requisite 
of  female  character.  Some  attention  had  also  been  paid  to  the  rest  of  her 
attire,  and  Jack  was,  altogether  less  repulsive  in  her  exterior,  than  when 
unaided,  she  had  attempted  to  resume  the  proper  garb  of  her  sex.  Use, 
and  association  too,  had  contributed  a  Uttle  to  revive  her  woman's 
nature,  if  we  may  so  express  it ;  and  she  had  begun,  in  particular,  to 
feel  the  sort  of  interest  in  her  patient,  which  we  all  come  in  time  to 
entertain  towards  any  object  of  our  especial  care.  We  do  not  mean 
that  Jack  had  absolutely  ever  ceased  to  love  her  husband ;  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  such  had  not  literally  been*  the  case ;  on  the  contrary,  her 
interest  in  him,  and  in  his  welfare,  had  never  ceased,  even  while  she 
saw  his  vices  and  detested  his  crimes  :  but  all  we  wish  to  say  here,  is 
that  she  was  getting,  in  addition  to  the  long  enduring  feelings  of  a  wife. 


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378  CAPTAIN  spike; 

s<NDiie  of  the  intereBt  of  a  nurse.  During  the  whole  time  which  had 
elapsed  between  Jaok*8  revealing  her  true  character  and  the  moment  of 
which  we  are  now  writings  8pike  had  not  once  spoken  to  his  wife. 
Often  had  she  caught  his  eyes  intently  riretted  on  her,  when  he  would 
turn  them  away,  as  she  feared  in  distaste;  and  once  or  twice,  he 
groaned  deeply,  more  like  a  man  who  suffered  mental  than  bodily  pain. 
Still,  the  patient  did  not  speak  once,  in  all  the  time  mentioned.  We 
should  be  representing  poor  Jack  as  possessing  more  philosophy,  or  less 
feeling,  than  the  truth  would  warrant,  were  we  to  say,  she  was  not  hurt 
at  this  conduct  in  her  husband.  On  the  contrary,  she  felt  it  deeply ; 
and  more  than  once^  it  had  so  far  subdued  her  pride,  as  to  cause  her 
bitterly  to  weep.  This  shedding  of  tears,  however,  was  of  service  to 
Jack,  in  one  sense ;  for  it  had  Uie  effect  of  renewing  old  impressions, 
and  in  a  certain  way  of  reviving  the  nature  of  her  sex  within  her ;  a 
nature  which  had  been  sadly  weakened  by  her  past  life. 

But  the  hour  had  at  length  come,  when  this  long  and  painful  silence 
was  to  be  broken.  Jack  and  Rose  were  alone  with  the  patient,  when 
the  last  again  spoke  to  his  wife. 

''  Molly,  poor  Molly  V  said  the  dying  man,  his  voice  continuing  full 
and  deep  to  the  last  "  What  a  sad  time  you  must  have  had  of  it,  after 
I  did  you  that  wrong  I*' 

**  It  is  hard  upon  a  woman,  Stephen,  to  turn  her  out  helpless  on  a 
cold,  selfish  world,"  answered  Jack,  simply ;  much  too  honest  to  affect 
reserve  she  did  not  feeL 

**  It  was  hard  indeed.  May  God  forgive  me  for  it,  as  I  hope  you  do, 
Molly." 

No  answer  was  made  to  this  appeal,  and  the  invalid  looked  anxiously 
at  his  wife.  The  last  sat  at  her  work,  which  had  now  got  to  be  less 
awkward  to  her,  with  her  eyes  bent  on  her  needle,  and  her  countenance 
rigid,  and,  so  far  as  the  eye  could  discern,  her  feelings  unmoved. 

<<  Your  husband  speaks  to  you.  Jack  Tier,"  said  Rose,  pointedly. 

"  May  yours  never  have  occasion  to  speak  to  you.  Rose  Budd,  in  the 
same  way,"  was  the  solemn  answer.  **  I  do  not  flatter  myself  that  I 
ever  was  as  comely  as  you,  or  that  yonder  poor  dying  wretch  was  a  Harry 
Mulford  in  his  youth ;  but  we  were  young,  and  happy,  and  respected 
once,  and  loved  each  other ;  yet,  you  see  what  it 's  all  come  to  !*' 

Rose  was  silenced,  though  she  had  too  much  tenderness  in  behalf  of 
her  own  youthful  and  manly  bridegroom  to  dread  a  fate  similar  to  that 
which  had  overtaken  poor  Jack.  Spike  now  seemed  disposed  to  say  some- 
thing more,  and  she  went  to  the  side  of  his  bed,  followed  by  her  companion 
who  kept  a  little  in  the  background,  as  if  unwilling  to  let  the  emotion 
she  really  felt  be  seen,  and,  perhaps,  conscious  that  her  ungainly  appear- 
ance  did  not  aid  her  in  recovering  the  lost  affections  of  her  husband. 

<<  I  have  been  a  verv  wicked  man,  I  fear,"  said  Spike,  earnestly. 

'<  There  are  none  without  sin,"  answered  Rose.  *<  Place  your  reliance 
on  the  mediation  of  the  Son  of  God ;  sins  far  deeper  than  yours  may  be 
pardoned." 

The  captain  stared  at  the  beautiful  speaker,  but  self-indulgence,  the 
incessant  pursuit  of  worldly  and  selfish  objects  for  forty  years,  and  the 
habits  of  a  life  into  which  the  thought  of  God  and  of  the  dread  here- 
after never  entered,  had  encased  his  spiritual  being  in  a  sort  of  braxen 
armour,  through  which  no  ordinary  blow  of  conscience  could  penetrate. 
Still  he  had  fearful  glimpses  of  recent  events,  and  his  soul,  hanging  as 
it  was  over  the  abyss  of  eternity,  was  troubled.  . 


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OB,   THE  ISLETS  OP  THE  GULP.  379 

**  What  has  become  of  your  aunt  ?  "  half  whispered  Spike  ,* — *^  my 
old  ciqptain's  widow.  She  ought  to  be  here;  and  Don  Wan  Montezuma, 
where  is  he  ?" 

Rose  tamed  aside  to  conceal  her  tears;  but  no  one  answered  the 
questions  of  the  dying  man.  Then  a  gleaming  of  childhood  shot  into 
the  recollection  of  Spike^  and  clasping  his  hands,  he  tried  to  pray.  But, 
like  others  who  have  lived  without  any  communication  with  their  Crea- 
tor, through  long  lives  of  apathy  to  his  existence  and  laws,  thinking 
only  of  the  present  tin^e,  and  daily,  hourly  sacrificing  principles  and  duty 
to  Uie  jiarrow  interests  of  the  moment,  he  now  found  how  hard  it  is  to 
renew  communications  with  a  Being  who  has  been  so  long  neglected. 
The  fault  lay  in  himself,  however ;  for  a  gracious  ear  was  open  even 
over  the  deam-bed  of  Stephen  Spike,  could  that  rude  spirit  only  bring 
itself  to  ask  for  mercy  in  earnestness  and  truth.  As  his  companions  saw 
hb  struggles,  they  left  him  for  a  few  minutes  to  his  own  thoughts. 

'*  Molly,"  Spike  at  length  uttered,  in  a  faint  tone,  the  voice  of  one 
conscious  of  being  very  near  his  end,  "  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me, 
Molly.     I  know  you  must  have  had  a  hard,  hard  time  of  it'* 

"  It  is  hard  for  a  woman  to  unsex  herself,  Stephen, — to  throw  off  her 
very  natur',  as  it  might  be,  and  to  turn  man." 

**  It  has  changed  you  sadly.  Even  your  speech  is  altered.  Once  your 
voice  was  soft  and  womanish — ^more  like  that  of  Rose  Budd  than  it  is  now." 

**  I  speak  as  them  speak  among  whom  Fve  been  forced  to  live.  The 
forecastle  and  steward's  pantry,  Stephen  Spike,  are  poor  schools  to  send 
women  to  Tarn  language  in." 

'*  Try  and  forget  it,  poor  Molly  I  Say  to  me,  so  that  I  can  hear  you, 
*  I  forget  and  forgive  Stephen.'  I  am  afraid  God  will  not  pardon  ray 
rins,  which  begin  to  seem  dreadful  to  me,  if  my  own  wife  re^se  to  for- 
get and  forgive,  on  my  dying  bed." 

Jack  was  much  mollified  by  this  appeal.  Her  interest  in  her  offend- 
ing husband  had  never  been  entirelv  extinguished.  She  had  remem- 
bered him,  and  often  with  woman's  kmdness,  m  all  her  wanderings  and 
sufferings,  as  the  preceding  parts  of  our  narrative  must  shew ;  and 
though  resentment  had  been  mingled  with  the  grief  and  mortification 
she  Mt  at  finding  how  much  he  still  submitted  to  Rose's  superior  charms, 
m  a  breast  as  really  generous  and  humane  as  that  of  Jack  Tier's,  such 
a  feeling  was  not  likely  to  endure  in  the  midst  of  a  scene  like  that  she 
was  now  called  to  witness.  The  muscles  of  her  countenance  twitched, 
the  hardlooking,  tanned  face  began  to  lose  its  sternness,  and  every  way 
she  appeared  like  one  profoundly  disturbed. 

•'  Turn  to  him  whose  goodness  and  marcy  may  sarve  you,  Stephen," 
she  said  in  a  milder  and  more  feminine  tone  than  she  had  used,  now,  for 
years,  making  her  more  like  herself  than  either  her  husband  or  Rose 
had  seen  her,  since  the  commencement  of  the  late  voyage.  *'  My  saying 
that  I  forget  and  forgive  cannot  help  a  man  on  his  death-bed." 

**  It  will  settle  my  mind,  Molly,  and  leave  me  freer  to  turn  my  thoughts 
to  God." 

Jack  was  much  affiected,  more  by  the  countenance  and  manner  of  the 
sufferer,  perhaps,  than  by  his  words.  She  drew  nearer  to  the  side  of 
her  husband's  pallet^  knelt,  took  his  hands,  and  said  solemnly  : 

**  Stephen  Spike,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  I  do  forgive  you,  and 
I  shall  pray  to  God  that  he  will  pardon  your  sins,  as  freely  and  more 
mareifuUy  than  I  now  pardon  all,  and  try  to  forget  all,  that  you  have 
done  to  me." 


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S80  CAPTAIN  spike; 

Spike  clasped  hu  hands,  and  again  he  tried  to  pray.  But  the  habits 
of  a  whole  life  ave  not  to  be  thrown  off  at  will ;  and  he  who  endeavours 
to  regain,  in  his  extremity,  the  moments  that  have  been  lost,  will  find  in 
bitter  reality,  that  he  has  been  heaping  mountains  on  his  own  soul,  by 
the  mere  practice  of  sin,  which  were  never  laid  there  by  the  original  fall 
of  his  race.  Jack,  however,  had  disburthened  her  spirit  of  a  load  that 
had  long  oppressed  it,  and  burring  her  face  in  the  rug,  she  wept 

*^  I  wish,  Molly,"  said  the  dying  man,  several  minutes  later,  "  I  wish 
I  had  never  seen  the  brig.  Until  I  got  that  craft,  no  thought  of  wrong- 
ing human  being  ever  crossed  my  mind*" 

**  It  was  the  father  of  Lies,  that  tempU  all  to  do  evil,  Stephen,  and 
not  the  brig,  which  caused  the  sins." 

'*  1  wbh  I  could  live  a  year  longer — only  one  year :  that  b  not  much 
to  ask,  for  a  man  who  is  not  yet  sixty/' 

**  It  is  hopeless,  poor  Stephen.  The  surgeons  say  you  cannot  live  one 
day." 

Spike  groaned;  for  the  past,  blended  fearfully  with  the  future,  gleamed 
on  his  conscience  with  a  brightness. that  appalled  him.  And  what  is  that 
future,  which  is  to  make  us  happy  or  miserable,  through  an  endless  vista 
of  time  ?  Is  it  not  composed  of  an  existence  in  which  conscience,  re- 
leased from  the  delusions  and  weaknesses  of  the  body,  sees  all  in  its 
true  colours,  appreciates  all,  and  punishes  all  ?  Such  an  existence  would 
make  every  man  the  keeper  of  the  record  of  his  own  transgressions, 
even  to  the  most  minute  exactness.  It  would  of  itself  mete  out  perfect 
justice,  since  the  sin  would  be  seen  amid  its  accompanying  hcXSy  every 
aggravating  or  extenuating  circumstance.  Each  man  would  be  strictly 
punished  according  to  his  talents.  As  no  one  is  without  sin,  it  makes 
the  necessity  of  an  atonement  indispensable ;  and,  in  its  most  rigid  in- 
terpretation, it  exhibits  the  truth  of  the  scheme  of  salvation  in  its  clear- 
est colours.  The  soul,  or  conscience,  that  can  admit  the  necessary  de- 
gree of  faith  in  that  atonement,  and  in  adadttlng^  feds  its  efficacy,  throws 
the  burthen  of  its  own  transgpressions  away,  and  remains  for  ever  in  the 
condition  of  its  original  existence,  pure,  and  consequently  happy. 

We  do  not  presume  to  lay  down  a  creed  on  this  mighty  and  myste- 
rious matter,  in  which  all  have  so  deep  an  interest,  and  concerning  which 
so  very  small  a  portion  of  the  human  race  think  much,  or  think  with 
any  clearness  when  it  does  become  the  subject  of  their  passing  thoughts 
at  alL  We  too  well  know  our  own  ignorance  to  venture  on  dogmas  which 
it  has  probably  been  intended  that  the  mind  of  man  should  not  yet 
grapple  with  and  comprehend.     To  return  to  our  subject 

Stephen  Spike  was  now  made  to  feel  the  incubus-load,  which  perse* 
verance  in  sin  heaps  on  the  breast  of  the  reckless  offender.  What  was 
the  most  grievous  of  all,  his  power  to  shake  off  this  dead  weight  was  di- 
minished in  precisely  the  same  proportion  as  the  burthen  was  increased, 
the  moral  force  of  every  man  lessening  in  a  very  just  ratio  to  the  magni- 
tude of  his  delinquencies.  Bitterly  did  this  deep  offender  struggle  with 
the  conscience,  and  little  did  hishalf*unsexed  wife  know  how  to  console  or 
aid  him.  Jack  had  been  superficially  instructed  in  the  dogmas  of  her 
faith  in  childhood  and  youth,  as  most  persons  are  instructed  in  what 
are  termed  Christian  communities  ;  had  been  made  to  learn  the  Cate- 
chism, the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  the  Creed;  and  had  been  left  to  set  up 
for  herself,  on  this  small  capital,  in  the  great  concern  of  human  exist- 
ence, on  her  marriage  and  entrance  on  the  active  business  of  life.  When 
the  manner  in  which  she  had  passed  the  last  twenty  years  is  remembered, 


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OE,  THE   ISLETS  OF  THE   GULF.  381 

no  one  can  be  surprifted  to  learn  that  Jack  was  of  little  assistance  to  her 
husband  in  his  extremity. 

Rose  made  an  effort  to  administer  hope  and  consolation,  but  the  ter- 
rible nature  of  the  struggle  she  witnessed  induced  her  to  send  for  the 
chaplain  of  the  Pourhkeepsie.  This  divine  prayed  with  the  dying  man; 
but  even  he^  in  the  last  moments  of  the  sufferer,  was  little  more  than  a 
passive  but  shocked  witness  of  remorse  suspended  oyer  the  abyss  of  eter- 
nity in  hopeless  dread.  We  shall  not  enter  into  the  details  of  the  revolt- 
ing scene,  but  simply  add,  that  curses,  blasphemy,  tremulous  cries  for 
merc^,  agonized  entreaties  to  be  advised,  and  sullen  defiance,  were  all 
strangely  and  fearfully  blended.  In  the  midst  of  one  of  these  revolting 
paroxysms  Spike  breathed  his  last  A  few  hours  later,  his  body  was 
interred  in  the  sands  of  the  shore.  It  may  be  well  to  say,  in  this  place, 
that  the  hurricane  of  1846,  which  is  known  to  have,  occurred  only  a  few 
months  later,  swept  off  the  frail  covering,  and  that  the  body  was  washed 
away  to  leave  its  bones  among  the  wrecks  and  relics  of  the  Florida 
Reef. 

Mulford  did  not  return  from  his  fruitless  expedition  in  quest  of  the 
remains  of  Mrs.  Budd  until  after  the  death  and  interment  of  Spike.  As 
nothing  remained  to  be  done  at  Key  West,  he  and  Rose,  accompanied 
by  Jack  Tier,  took  passage  for  Charleston  in  the  first  convenient  vessel 
ihat  offered.  Two  days  before  they  sailed,  the  Poughkeepsie  went  out 
to  cruise  in  the  gulf,  agreeably  to  her  general  orders.  The  evening 
previously.  Captain  Mull,  Wallace,  and  the  chaplain  passed  with  the 
bridegroom  and  bride,  when  the  matter  of  the  doubloons  found  in  the 
boat  was  discussed.  It  was  agreed  that  Jack  Tier  should  have  them, 
and  into  her  hands  the  bag  was  now  placed.  On  this  occasion,  to  oblige 
the  officers.  Jack  went  into  a  narrative  of  all  she  had  seen  and  suffer^, 
from  the  moment  when  she  was  abandoned  by  her  late  husband  down  to 
that  when  she  found  him  again.  It  was  a  strange  account,  and  one  filled 
with  surprising  adventures.  In  most  of  the  vessels  in  which  she  had 
served.  Jack  had  acted  in  the  steward's  department,  though  she  had 
frequently  done  duty  as  a  foremost  hand.  In  strength  and  skill  she  ad- 
mitted that  she  had  often  failed,  but  in  courage  never.  Having  been 
given  reason  to  think  her  husband  was  reduced  to  serving  in  a  vessel  of 
war,  she  had  shipped  on  board  a  frigate  bound  to  the  Mediterranean, 
and  had  actually  made  a  whole  cruise,  as  a  ward-room  boy,  on  that  sta- 
tion. While  thus  employed,  she  had  met  with  two  of  the  gentlemen 
present,  Captain  Mull  and  Mr.  Wallace.  The  former  was  then  first 
lieutenant  of  the  frigate,  and  the  latter  a  passed  midshipman ;  and  in 
these  capacities  both  had  been  well  known  to  her.  As  the  name  she 
then  bore  was  the  same  as  that  under  which  she  now  *  hailed,'  these 
officers  were  soon  made  to  recollect  her,  though  Jack  was  no  longer  the 
light  trim-built  lad  he  had  then  appeared  to  be.  Neither  of  the  gentlemen 
named  had  made  the  whole  cruise  in  the  ship,  but  each  had  been  pro- 
moted and  transferred  to  another  craflt,  after  being  Jack's  shipmates  rather 
more  than  a  year.  This  information  greatly  facilitated  the  afiair  of  the 
doubloons. 

From  Charleston  the  travellers  came  north  by  railroad,  having  made 
several  stops  by  the  way,  in  order  to  divert  the  thoughts  of  his  beautiful 
young  bride  from  dwelling  too  much  on  the  fate  of  her  aunt.  He  knew 
that  home  would  revive  all  these  recollections  painfully,  and  wished  to 
put  off  the  hour  of  the  return,  until  time  had  a  little  weakened  Rose's 
regrets.   For  this  reason  he  passed  a  whole  week  in  Washington,  though 


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882  CAPTAIN  spike; 

k  was  a  season  of  the  jear  that  the  place  is  in  much  request  Stilly 
Washington  is  scarce  a  town  at  any  season.  It  is  much  the  fashion  to 
deride  the  American  capital,  and  to  treat  it  as  a  place  of  very  hnmhle 
performance  with  very  sounding  pretensions.  C«tainly,  Washington 
has  very  few  of  the  peculiarities  of  a  great  European  capital ;  hut,  few 
as  these  are,  they  are  more  than  belong  to  any  other  place  in  this  coun- 
try. We  now  allude  to  the  distinctive  characteristics  of  a  capital,  and 
not  to  a  mere  concentration  of  houses  and  shops  within  a  given  space. 
In  this  last  respect,  Washington  is  much  b^ind  fifty  other  American 
towns,  even  while  it  is  the  only  place  in  the  whole  republic  which  pos- 
sesses specimens  of  architecture  on  a  scale  approaching  that  of  the  higher 
classes  of  the  edifices  of  the  old  world.  It  is  totally  deficient  in  churches, 
and  theatres,  and  markets ;  or  those  it  does  possess  are,  in  an  architec- 
tural sense,  not  at  all  above  the  level  of  village  or  country-town  preten- 
sions, but  one  or  two  of  its  national  edifices  do  approadi  the  magnifi- 
cence and  grandeur  of  the  old  world.  The  new  Treasury  buildings  are 
unquestionably,  on  the  score  of  size,  embellishments,  and  finish,  the 
American  edifice  that  comes  nearest  to  first  class  architecture  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic  The  Capitol  comes  next,  though  it  can 
scarce  be  ranked  relatively  as  high.  As  for  the  White  House,  it  is 
every  way  sufficient  for  its  purposes  and  the  institutions ;  and,  now  that 
its  gprounds  are  finished,  and  the  shrubbery  and  trees  begin  to  tell,  one 
sees  about  it  something  that  is  not  unworthy  of  its  high  uses  and  origrin. 
Those  grounds,  which  so  long  lay  a  reproach  to  the  national  taste  and 
liberality,  are  now  fast  becoming  beautiful,  are  already  exceedinglv 
pretty,  and  give  to  a  structure  that  is  destined  to  become  histori^, 
having  already  associated  with  it  the  names  of  Jefferson,  Madison,  Jack- 
son, and  Quincy  Adams,  together  with  the  oi  polloi  of  the  later  presi- 
dents, an  enlouroffe  that  is  suitable  to  its  past  recollections  and  its  pre- 
sent purposes.  They  are  not  quite  on  a  level  with  the  parks  of  Lbndon, 
it  is  true,  or  even  with  the  Tuileries,  or  the  Luxembourg,  or  the  Boboli, 
or  the  Villa  Reale,  or  fifty  more  gprounds  and  gardens  of  a  similar  nature 
that  might  be  mentioned;  but,  seen  in  the  spring  and  early  summer, 
they  adorn  the  building  they  surround,  and  lend  to  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood a  character  of  high  civilisation  that  no  other  place  in  America  can 
show,  in  precisely  the  same  form  or  to  the  same  extent. 

This  much  have  we  said  on  the  subject  of  the  White  House  and  its 
precincts,  because  we  took  occasion  in  a  former  work  to  berate  the  nar- 
row-minded parsimony  which  left  the  grounds  of  the  White  House  in  a 
condition  that  was  discreditable  to  the  republic.  How  far  our  philippic 
may  have  hastened  the  improvements  which  have  been  made,  is  more 
than  we  shall  pretend  to  say ;  but  having  made  the  former  strictures,  we 
are  happy  to  have  an  occasion  to  say  (though  nearly  twenty  years  have 
intervened  between  the  expressions  of  the  two  opinions)  that  they  are 
no  lonjper  merited. 

And  here  we  will  add  another  word,  and  that  on  a  subject  that  is  not 
sufficiently  pressed  on  the  attention  of  a  people  who  by  position  are  un- 
avoidably provincial.  We  invite  those  whose  gorges  rise  at  any  stricture 
on  anything  American,  and  who  fancy  it  is  enough  to  belong  to  the  great 
republic  to  be  great  in  itself,  to  place  themselves  in  front  of  the  State 
Department,  as  it  now  stands,  and  to  examine  its  dimensions,  material, 
and  form  with  critical  eyes ;  then  to  look  along  the  adjacent  Treasury 
buildings,  to  fancy  them  completed  by  a  junction  with  new  edifices  of  a 
similar  construction  to  contain  the  department  of  state;  next,  to  faney 


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OE,  THE  ISLETTS  OF  THE  GULF.  383 

similar  works  completed  for  the  two  opposite  departments ;  after  which, 
to  compare  the  past  and  present  with  the  future  as  thus  finished,  and 
rememher  how  recent  has  been  the  partial  improvement  which  even  now 
exists.  If  this  examination  and  comparison  do  not  show  directly  to  the 
sense  of  sight  how  much  there  was  and  is  to  criticise,  as  put  in  contrast 
with  other  countries,  we  shall  give  up  the  individuals  in  question,  as  too 
deeply  dyed  in  the  provincial  wool  ever  to  be  whitened.  The  present 
Trinity  Church,  New  York,  certainly  not  more  than  a  third-class  Euro- 
pean diurch,  if  as  much,  compared  with  its  village-like  predecessor,  may 
supply  a  practical  homily  of  the  same  degree  of  usefulness.  There  may 
be  tiiose  among  us,  however,  who  fancy  it  patriotism  to  maintain  that 
the  old  Treasury  buildings  are  quite  equal  to  the  new ;  and  of  these  in- 
tense Americans  we  cry  their  mercy  I 

Rose  felt  keenly,  on  reaching  her  late  aunt's  very  neat  dwelling  in 
Fourteenth  Street,  New  York.  But  the  manly  tenderness  of  Mulford 
was  a  great  support  to  her,  and  a  little  time  brought  her  to  think  of  that 
weak-minded  but  well-meaning  and  affectionate  relative  with  gentle  re- 
gret rather  than  with  grief.  Among  the  connections  of  her  young  hus- 
band, she  found  several  females  of  a  class  in  life  certainly  equal  to  her 
own,  and  somewhat  superior  to  the  latter  in  education  and  habits.  As 
for  Harry,  he  very  gladly  passed  the  season  with  his  beautiful  bride 
though  a  fine  sliip  was  laid  down  for  him,  by  means  of  Rose's  fortune 
now  much  increased  by  her  aunt's  death,  and  he  was  absent  in  Europe 
when  his  son  was  bom, — an  event  that  occurred  only  two  months  since. 

The  Swash  and  the  shipment  of  gunpowder  were  thought  of  no  more 
in  the  good  town  of  Manhattan.  This  great  emporium — we  beg  pardon, 
this  great  commercial  emporium — ^has  a  trick  of  forgetting,  condensing  all 
interests  into  those  of  the  present  moment.  It  is  much  addicted  to  be- 
lieving that  which  never  had  an  existence,  and  of  overlooking  that  which 
is  occurring  directly  under  its  nose.  So  marked  is  this  tendency  to  for- 
getfulness,  we  should  not  be  surprised  to  hear  some  of  the  Manhattaness 
pretend  that  our  legend  is  nothing  but  a  fiction,  and  deny  the  existence 
of  the  Molly,  Captain  Spike,  and  even  of  Biddy  Moon.  But  we  know 
them  too  well  to  mind  what  they  say,  and  shall  go  on  and  finish  our 
narrative  in  our  own  way,  just  as  if  there  were  no  such  raven-throated 
commentators  at  all. 

Jack  Tier,  still  known  by  that  name,  lives  in  the  £Eunily  of  Cap- 
tain Mulford.  She  is  fast  losing  the  tan  on  her  face  and  hands,  and 
every  day  is  improving  in  appearance.  She  now  habitually  wears  her 
proper  attire,  and  is  dropping  gradually  into  the  feelings  and  habits  of 
her  sex.  She  never  can  become  what  she  once  was,  any  more  than  the 
blackamoor  can  become  white,  or  the  leopard  change  his  spots ;  but  she 
is  no  longer  revolting ;  she  has  lefl  off  chewing  and  smoking,  having 
found  a  refuge  in  snuff.  Her  hair  is  permitted  to  grow,  and  is  already 
turned  up  with  a  comb,  though  constantly  couched  beneath  a  cap. 
The  heart  of  Jack  alone  seems  unaltered.  The  strange  tiger-like  affec- 
tion that  she  bore  for  Spike,  during  twenty  years  of  abandonment,  has 
disappeared  in  regrets  for  his  end.  It  is  succeeded  by  a  most  sincere 
attachment  for  Rose,  in  which  the  little  boy,  since  his  appearance  on  the 
scene,  is  becoming  a  large  participator.  This  child  Jack  is  beginning  to 
love  intensely ;  and  the  doubloons,  well  invested,  placing  her  above  the 
feeling  of  dependence,  she  is  likely  to  end  her  life,  once  so  errant  and 
disturbed,  in  tranquillity  and  a  homelike  happiness. 


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384 


THE  SIX  DECISIVE  BATTLES  OF  THE  WORLD. 

BT    PB0FBB80B    CBBA5Y. 

Those  few  battlet  of  which  a  contrary  event  would  have  eaaentially  varied  the 
drama  of  the  world  in  all  its  subsequent  scenes. — Uallam. 

No.  1V.--ARM1NIUS'8  VICTORY  OVER  THE  ROMAN  LEOIONS 
UNDER  VARUS. 

To  a  truly  illustrious  Frenchman,  whose  reverses  as  a  minister 
can  never  obscure  his  achievements  in  the  world  of  letters,  we  are 
indebted  for  the  most  profound,  and  most  eloquent  estimate  that  we 
possess  of  the  importance  of  Uie  Germanic  element  in  European 
civilization,  and  of  the  extent  to  which  the  human  race  is  indebted 
to  those  brave  warriors  who  long  were  the  unconquered  antagonists^ 
and  finally  became  the  conquerors  of  Imperial  Rome. 

Twenty  eventful  years  have  passed  away  since  M.  Guizot  delivered 
from  the  chair  of  modem  history  at  Paris  his  course  of  lectures  on  the 
history  of  civilization  in  Europe.  During  those  years  the  spirit  of 
earnest  inquiry  into  the  germs  and  primary  developments  of  existing 
institutions  has  become  more  and  more  active  and  universal,  and  the 
merited  celebrity  of  M.  Guizot's  work  has  proportionally  increased. 
Its  admirable  analysis  of  the  complex  political  and  social  organiza- 
tions of  which  the  modem  civilized  world  is  made  up,  must  have 
led  thousands  to  trace  with  keener  interest  the  great  crises  of  times 
past,  by  which  the  characteristics  of  the  present  were  determined. 
The  narrative  of  one  of  these  great  crises,  of  the  epoch  a.  d.  9,  when 
Germany  took  up  arms  for  her  independence  against  Roman  inva- 
sion, has  for  us  this  special  attraction — that  it  forms  part  of  our  own 
national  history.  Had  Arminius  been  supine  or  unsuccessful,  our 
Germanic  ancestors  would  have  been  enslaved  or  exterminated  in 
their  original  seats  along  the  Eyder  and  the  Elbe.  This  island 
would  never  have  borne  the  name  of  England,  and  **  we,  this  great 
English  nation,  whose  race  and  language  are  now  overrunning  the 
earth,  from  one  end  of  it  to  the  other,"  would  have  been  utterly  cut 
off  from  existence. 

Arnold  may,  indeed,  go  too  far  in  holding  that  we  are  wholly  un- 
connected in  race  with  the  Romans  and  Bntons  who  inhabited  this 
country  before  the  coming<K>ver  of  the  Saxons;  that,  ^^ nationally 
speaking,  the  history  of  Caesar's  invasion  has  no  more  to  do  with  us 
than  the  natural  history  of  the  animals  which  then  inhabited  our 
forests."  There  seems  ample  evidence  to  prove  that  the  Romanized 
Celts  whom  our  Teutonic  forefathers  found  here,  influenced  materi- 
ally the  character  of  our  nation.  But  the  mainstream  of  our  people 
was  and  is  Germanic  Our  language  alone  decisively  proves  this. 
Arminius  is  far  more  truly  one  of  our  national  heroes  than  Caracta- 
cus :  and  it  was  our  own  primeval  fatherland  that  the  brave  German 
rescued  when  he  slaughtered  the  Roman  legions  eighteen  centuries 
ago,  in  the  marshy  glens  between  the  Lippe  and  the  Ems. 

Dark  and  disheartening  even  to  heroic  spirits  must  have  seemed 
the  prospects  of  Germany  when  Ajrminius  planned  the  general  rising 
of  his  countrymen  against  Rome.    Half  the  land  was  occupied  by 


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IV. — ARMINTUS^S   VICTORY  OVER  VARUS.  385 

Roman  garrisons;  and,  what  was  worse,  many  of  the  Germans 
seemed  patiently  acquiescent  in  their  state  of  bondage.  The  braver 
portion,  whose  patriotism  could  be  relied  on,  was  ill- armed  and  un- 
disciplined ;  while  the  enemy's  troops  consisted  of  veterans  in  the 
highest  state  of  equipment  and  training,  familiarized  with  victcnry, 
and  commanded  by  officers  of  proved  skill  and  valour.  The  re- 
sources of  Rome  seemed  boundless;  her  tenacity  of  purpose  was 
believed  to  be  invincible.  There  was  no  hope  of  foreign  sympathy 
or  aid  ;  for  '*  the  self-governing  powers  that  nad  filled  the  old  world 
had  bent  one  after  another  before  the  rising  power  of  Rome,  and 
had  vanished.  The  earth  seemed  left  void  of  independent  na- 
tions."* 

The  German  chieflain  knew  well  the  gigantic  power  of  the  op- 
pressor. Arminius  was  no  rude  savage,  fiffhting  out  of  mere  animal 
instinct,  or  in  ignorance  of  the  might  of  his  adversary.  He  was 
familiar  with  the  Roman  language  and  civilization ;  he  had  served 
in  the  Roman  armies ;  he  had  been  admitted  to  the  Roman  citizen- 
ship, and  raised  to  the  rank  of  the  equestrian  order.  It  was  part  of 
the  subtle  policy  of  Rome  to  confer  rank  and  privileges  on  the  youth 
of  the  leading  families  in  the  nations  which,  she  wished  to  enslave. 
Among  other  young  German  chieftains,  Arminius  and  his  brother, 
who  were  the  heads  of  the  noblest  house  in  the  tribe  of  the  Cherusci, 
had  been  selected  as  fit  objects  for  the  exercise  of  this  insidious  sys* 
tern.  Roman  refinements  and  dignities  succeeded  in  denationalizing 
the  brother,  who  assumed  the  Roman  name  of  Flavins,  and  adhered 
to  Rome  throughout  all  her  wars  against  his  country.  Arminius 
remained  unbought  by  honours  or  wealth,  uncorrupted  by  refine- 
ment or  luxury.  He  aspired  to  and  obtained  from  Roman  enmity  a 
higher  title  than  ever  could  have  been  given  him  by  Roman  favour. 
It  is  in  the  page  of  Rome's  greatest  historian  that  his  name  has  come 
down  to  us  with  the  proud  addition  of  '^  Liberator  baud  dubie  Ger- 
niani»."t 

Oilen  must  the  younff  chieftain,  while  meditating  the  exploit 
which  has  thus  immortalized  him,  have  anxiously  revolved  in  his 
mind  the  fate  of  the  many  great  men  who  had  been  crushed  in 
the  attempt  which  he  was  about  to  renew, — ^the  attempt  to  stay  the 
chariot-wheels  of  triumphant  Rome.  Could  he  hope  to  succeed 
where  Hannibal  and  Mithridates  had  perished  ?  What  had  been  the 
doom  of  Viriathus  ?  and  what  warning  against  vain  valour  was  writ- 
ten on  the  desolate  site  where  Numantia  once  had  flourished  ?  Nor 
was  a  caution  wanting  in  scenes  nearer  home  and  more  recent  times. 
The  Gauls  had  fruitlessly  struggled  for  eight  years  against  Cssar ;  and 
the  gallant  Vercingetorix,  who  in  the  last  year  of  the  war  had  roused  all 
his  countrymen  to  insurrection,  who  had  cut  off  Roman  detachments, 
and  brought  CsBsar  himself  to  the  extreme  of  peril  at  Alesia— he,  too, 
had  finally  succumbed,  had  been  led  caf>tive  in  Caesar's  triumph,  and 
had  then  been  butchered  in  cold  blood  in  a  Roman  dungeon. 

It  was  true  that  Rome  was  no  longer  the  sreat  military  republic, 
which  for  so  many  ages  had  shattered  the  kinffdoms  of  the  world. 
Her  system  of  government  was  changed ;  and  afVer  a  century  at 
revolution  and  civil  war  she  had  placed  herself  under  the  despotism 
of  a  single  ruler.  But  the  discipline  of  her  troops  was  yet  unim- 
Ijaired,  and  her  warlike  spirit  seemed  unabated.    The  first  years  of 

«  Ranke.  f  Tadtos,  Annals,  II.  88. 

f 

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386        •raS   SIX   DECISIVE  BATTLES  OF  THE  WORLD. 

the  empire  had  been  signalised  by  conquests  as  valuable  as  any 
gained  by  the  republic  in  a  corresponding  period.  The  generals  of 
Augustus  had  extended  the  Roman  frontier  from  the  Alps  to  the 
Danube^  and  had  reduced  into  subjection  the  large  and  important 
countries  that  now  form  the  territories  of  all  Austria,  south  of  that 
river,  and  of  East  Switzerland,  Lower  Wirtemberg^  Bmwmm,  ^e 
Vahelline,  and  the  TyroL  While  the  pvogresa  of  the  Roman  arms 
thus  pressed  the  Germans  firom  the  south,  still  more  formidable  in- 
roads had  been  made  by  the  Imperial  legions  on  the  west  Roman 
armies  moving  ttom  the  province  of  Gaul,  established  a  chain  of 
fbrtrases  along  the  right  as  well  as  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhine,  and 
in  a  series  of  victorious  campaigns,  advanced  their  eagles  as  far  as 
the  Elbe,  which  now  seemed  added  to  the  list  of  vassal  rivers,  to  the 
Nile,  the  Rhine,  the  Rhone,  the  Danube,  the  Tagus,  the  Seine,  and 
many  more,  that  acknowledged  the  supremacy  of  the  Tiber.  Roman 
fleets  also  sailing  from  the  harbours  of  Gaul  along  the  (German  coasts 
and  up  the  estuaries,  co-operated  with  the  land-rorces  of  the  empire, 
and  seemed  to  display,  even  more  decisively  than  her  armies,  her 
overwhelming  superiority  over  the  rude  Germiftiic  tribes.  Through- 
out the  territory  thus  invaded,  the  Romans  had  with  their  usual 
military  skill  established  fortified  posts;  and  a  powerful  army  of 
occupation  was  kept  on  foot,  ready  to  move  instantly  on  any  spot 
where  any  popular  outbreak  might  be  attempted. 

Vast  however,  and  admirably  organized  as  the  fabric  of  Roman 
power  appeared  on  the  frontiers  and  in  the  provinces,  there  was 
rottenness  at  the  core.  In  Rome's  unceasing  hostilities  with  foreign 
foes,  and  still  more,  in  her  long  series  of  desolating  civil  wars, 
the  free  middle  classes  of  Italy  had  almost  wholly  disappeared 
Above  the  position  which  they  had  occupied  an  oligarchy  of  wealth 
had  reared  itself:  beneath  that  position  a  degraded  mass  of  poverty 
and  misery  was  fermenting.  Slaves,  the  chance  sweepings  of  every 
conquered  country,  shoals  of  Africans,  Sardinians,  Asiatics,  Illyrians, 
and  others  made  up  the  bulk  of  the  population  of  the  Peninsula. 
The  foulest  profligacy  o£  manners  was  general  in  all  ranks.  In  uni- 
versal weariness  of  revolution  and  civil  war,  and  in  consciousness  of 
being  too  debased  for  self-government  the  nation  had  submitted  it- 
self to  die  absolute  authority  of  Augustus.  Adulation  was  now  the 
chief  function  of  the  senate :  and  the  gif^  of  genius  and  accomplish- 
ments of  art  were  devoted  to  the  elaboration  of  eloquently  false 
panegyrics  upon  the  prince  and  his  favourite  courtiers.  With  bitter 
indignation  must  the  German  chieftain  have  beheld  all  this,  and 
contrasted  with  it  the  rouffh  worth  of  his  own  countrymen : — their 
bravery,  their  fidelity  to  their  word,  their  manly  independence  of 
spirit,  their  love  of  their  national  free  institutions,  and  their  loathing 
of  every  pollution  and  meanness.  Above  all,  he  must  have  thought 
of  the  domestic  virtues  that  hallowed  a  German  home ;  of  the  re- 
spect there  shewn  to  the  female  character,  and  of  the  pure  affection 
by  which  that  respect  was  repaid.  His  soul  must  have  burned 
within  him  at  the  contemplation  of  such  a  race  yielding  to  these  de- 
based Italians. 

Still,  to  persuade  the  Germans  to  combine,  in  spite  of  their  fre- 
quent, feuds  amonff  themselves,  in  one  sudden  outbreak  against 
Rome;— to  keep  the  scheme  concealed  from  the  Romans  unti! 
the  hour  for  action  arrived ;  and  then,  without  possessing  a  single 


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IV. — ARMINIUS'S  VICTORY   OVER  VARUS.  387 

walled  town,  without  military  stores^  without  training,  to  teach 
his  insurgent  countrymen  to  defeat  veteran  armies,  and  storm 
fortifications,  seemed  so  jperilous  an  enterprise,  that  probably  Armi* 
nius  would  have  recedecl  from  it,  had  not  a  stronger  feeling  even 
than  patriotism  urged  him  on.  Among  the  G^ermans  of  high  rank, 
who  had  most  readily  submitted  to  the  invaders,  and  become  aeal« 
ous  partisans  of  Roman  authority,  was  a  chieftain  named  Segestea. 
His  daughter,  Thusnelda,  was  preeminent  among  the  noble  maidens 
of  Germany.  Arminius  had  sought  her  hand  in  marriage;  but 
Segestes,  who  probably  discerned  the  young  chief's  disaffection  to 
Rome,  forbade  his  suit,  and  strove  to  predude  all  communication 
between  him  and  his  daughter.  Thusnelda,  however,  sjrmpathised 
far  more  with  the  heroic  spirit  of  her  lover,  than  witn  the  tirae^ 
serving  policy  of  her  father.  An  elopement  baffled  the  precautions 
of  S^estes ;  who,  disappointed  in  his  hope  of  preventing  Uie  mar«- 
riage,  accused  Arminius,  before  the  Roman  governor,  of  miving  car- 
ried off  his  daughter,  and  of  planning  treason  against  Rome.  Thus 
assailed,  and  dreading  to  see  his  bride  torn  from  him  by  the  officials 
of  the  foreign  oppressor,  Arminius  delayed  no  longer,  but  bent  all 
his  energies  to  organize  and  execute  a  general  insurrection  of  the 

Seat  mass  of  his  countrymen,  who  hitherto  had  submittad  in  sullen 
tred  to  the  Roman  dominion. 

A  change  of  governors  had  recently  taken  place,  which,  while  it  ma^ 
terially  favoured  the  ultimate  success  of  the  insurgents,  served  by  the 
immediate  aggravation  of  the  Roman  oppressions  which  it  produced, 
to  make  the  native  population  more  universally  eager  to  take  arms. 
Tiberius,  he  who  was  aiterwards  emperor,  had  recently  been  recalled 
from  the  command  in  G^ennany,  and  sent  into  Pannonia  to  put  down 
a  dangerous  revolt  which  had  broken  out  against  the  Romans  in  that 
province.  The  German  patriots  were  thus  delivered  horn  the  stem 
supervision  of  one  of  the  most  suspicious  of  mankind,  and  were  also 
relieved  from  having  to  contend  against  the  high  military  talents  of 
a  veteran  commander,  who  thoroughly  understood  their  national 
character,  and  also  the  nature  of  the  country,  which  he  himself  had 
principally  subdued.  In  the  room  of  Tiberius,  Augustus  sent  into 
Germany  Qnintilius  Varus,  who  had  lately  returned  from  the  Pro- 
consulate of  Syria.  Varus  was  a  true  representative  of  the  higher 
classes  of  the  Romans,  among  whom  a  general  taste  for  literature,  a 
keen  susceptibility  to  all  intellectual  qualifications,  a  minute  ac- 
quaintance with  ue  principles  and  practice  of  their  own  national 
jurisprudence,  a  careful  training  in  tne  schools  of  the  Rhetoricians, 
and  a  fondness  for  either  partaking  in  or  watching  the  intel- 
lectual strife  of  forensic  oratory,  had  become  generaUy  diffused, 
without,  however,  having  humanized  the  old  Roman  spirit  of  cruel 
indifference  for  human  feelings  and  human  sufferings,  and  without 
acting  as  the  least  checks  on  unprincipled  avarice  and  ambition,  or 
on  habitual  and  gross  profligacy.  Accustomed  to  govern  the  de- 
praved and  debased  natives  of  Syria,  a  country  where  courage  in 
man,  and  virtue  in  woman,  had  for  centuries  been  unknown.  Varus 
thought  that  he  might  gratify  his  licentious  and  rapacious  passions 
with  equal  impunity  among  the  high-minded  sons  and  pure-spirited 
daughters  of  Germany.  When  the  general  of  an  army  sets  the  ex- 
ample of  outrages  of  this  description,  he  is  soon  faithfully  imitated 
by  his  officers^  and  surpassed  by  his  still  more  brutal  soldiery.    The 


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388         THE  SIX   DECISIVE  BATTLES  OP  THE  WORLD. 

Romans  now  habitually  indulged  in  those  violations  of  the  sanctity 
of  the  domestic  shrine^  and  those  insults  upon  honour  and  modesty 
by  which  far  less  gallant  spirits  than  those  of  our  Teutonic  ancestors 
have  often  been  maddened  into  insurrection.* 

Arminius  found  among  the  other  German  chiefs  many  who  sym- 
pathised with  him  in  his  indignation  at  their  country's  abasement, 
and  many  whom  private  wrongs  had  stung  yet  more  deeply.  There 
was  little  difficultv  in  collecting  bold  leaders  for  an  attack  on  the 
oppressors^  and  little  fear  of  Uie  population  not  rising  readily  at 
those  leaders'  call.  But  to  declare  open  war  against  E^e,  and  to 
encounter  Varus'  army  in  a  pitched  battle,  would  have  been  merely 
rushing  upon  certain  destruction.  Varus  had  three  legions  under 
him,  a  force  which,  after  allowing  for  detachments,  cannot  be  esti- 
mated at  less  than  fourteen  thousand  Roman  infantry.  He  had  also 
eight  or  nine  hundred  Roman  cavalry,  and  at  least  an  equal  number 
of  horse  and  foot  sent  from  the  allied  states,  or  raised  among  those 
provincials  that  had  not  received  the  Roman  franchise. 

It  was  not  merely  the  number  but  the  quality  of  this  force  that 
made  them  formidable  ;  and  however  contemptible  Varus  might  be 
as  a  general,  Arminius  well  knew  how  admirably  the  Roman  armies 
were  organized  and  officered,  and  how  perfectly  the  legionaries  under* 
stood  every  manoeuvre  and  every  duty  which  the  varpng  emergencies 
of  a  stricken  field  might  require.  Stratagem  was,  therefore,  indis- 
pensable ,*  and  it  was  necessary  to  blind  Varus  to  their  schemes  until 
a  favourable  opportunity  should  arrive  for  striking  a  decisive  blow. 

For  this  purpose,  the  German  confederates  frequented  the  head- 
quarters of  Varus,  which  seem  'to  have  been  near  the  centre  of  the 
modem  country  of  Westphalia,  where  the  Roman  general  conducted 
himself  with  all  the  arrogant  security  of  the  governor  of  a  perfectly 
submissive  province.  There  Varus  gratified  at  once  his  vanity,  his 
rhetorical  tastes,  and  his  avarice,  by  holding  courts,  to  which  he  sum- 
moned the  Germans  for  the  settlement  of  all  their  disputes,  while  a  bar 
of  Roman  advocates  attended  to  argue  the  cases  before  the  tribunal 
of  Varus,  who  did  not  omit  the  opportunity  of  exacting  court-fees  and 
accepting  bribes.  Varus  trusted  implidtfy  to  the  respect  which  the 
Germans  pretended  to  pay  to  his  abilities  as  a  judse,  and  to  the  in- 
terest which  they  affected  to  take  in  the  forensic  eloquence  of  their 
conquerors.     Meanwhile  a  succession  of  heavy  rains  rendered  the 

*  I  cannot  forbear  quoting  Macaulay*s  beautiful  lines,  where  he  describes  how 
similar  outrages  in  the  early  times  of  Kome  goaded  the  Plebeians  to  rise  against 
the  Patricians. 

«<  Heap  heavier  still  the  fetters;  bar  closer  still  the  grate ; 
Patient  as  sheep  we  yield  us  up  unto  your  cruel  hate. 
But  by  the  shades  bcnieath  us,  and  by  the  gods  above. 
Add  not  unto  your  cruel  hate  your  still  more  cruel  love. 

*  «  •  •  * 

Then  leave  the  poor  Plebeian  his  single  tie  to  life — 

The  sweet,  sweet  love  of  daughter,  of  sister,  and  of  wife. 

The  gentle  speech,  the  balm  for  all  that  his  vext  soul  endures, 

The  kiss  in  which  he  half  foigets  even  such  a  yoke  as  yours. 

Still  let  the  maiden's  beauty  swell  the  fathier*s  breast  with  pride  ; 

Still  let  the  bridegroom's  arms  enfold  an  unpolluted  bride. 

Spare  us  the  inexpiable  wrong,  the  unutterable  shame, 

That  turns  the  coward's  heart  to  steel,  the  sluggard's  blood  to  flame ; 

Lest  when  our  latest  hope  is  fled  ve  taste  of  our  despair, 

And  learn  by  proof  in  some  wild  hour  how  muoh  the  wretdied  dare." 


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IV.— ARMINIUS*S   VICTORY   OVER   VARUS.  389 

country  more  difficult  for  the  operations  of  regular  troops,  and  Arnii- 
nius,  seeing  that  the  infatuation  of  Varus  was  complete,  secretly 
directed  the  tribes  in  Lower  Saxony  to  revolt.  This  was  repre- 
sented to  Varus  as  an  occasion  which  required  his  prompt  attend- 
ance at  the  spot ;  but  he  was  kept  in  studied  ignorance  of  its  being 
part  of  a  concerted  national  rising ;  and  he  still  looked  on  Arminius 
as  his  submissive  vassal,  whose  aid  he  might  rely  on  in  fiicilitating 
the  march  of  his  troops  against  the  rebels,  and  in  extinguishing  the 
local  disturbance.  He  therefore  set  his  army  in  motion,  and  marched 
eastward  in  a  line  parallel  to  the  course  of  the  Lippe.  For  some 
distance,  his  route  lay  along  a  level  plain ;  but  on  arriving  at  the 
tract  between  the  curve  of  the  upper  part  of  that  stream  and  the 
sources  of  the  Ems,  the  country  assumes  a  very  difTerent  character  ; 
and  here,  in  the  territory  of  the  modern  little  principality  of  Lippe, 
it  was  that  Arminius  had  fixed  the  scene  of  his  enterprise. 

A  woody  and  hilly  region  intervenes  between  the  heads  of  the  two 
rivers,  and  forms  the  water-shed  of  their  streams.  This  region  still 
retains  the  name  (Teutonberger  wald  =  Teutobergiensis  saltus)  which 
it  bore  in  the  days  of  Arminius.  The  nature  of  the  ground  has  pro- 
bably also  remained  unaltered.  The  eastern  part  of  it,  round  Det- 
wolcf,  is  described  by  a  modern  German  scholar.  Dr.  Plate,  as  being  a 
''  table-land  intersected  by  numerous  deep  and  narrow  valleys,  which 
in  some  places  form  small  plains,  surrounded  by  steep  mountains  and 
rocks,  and  only  accessible  by  narrow  defiles.  All  the  valleys  are 
traversed  by  rapid  streams,  shallow  in  the  dry  season,  but  subject 
to  sudden  swellings  in  autumn  and  winter.  The  vast  forests  which 
cover  the  summits  and  slopes  of  the  hills  consist  chiefly  of  oak ; 
there  is  little  underwood,  and  both  men  and  horse  would  move  with 
ease  in  the  forests  if  the  ground  were  not  broken  by  gulleys,  or  ren- 
dered impracticable  by  nillen  trees."  This  is  the  district  to  which 
Varus  is  supposed  to  have  marched  ;  and  Dr.  Plate  adds,  that  '<  the 
names  of  several  localities  on  and  near  that  spot  seem  to  indicate 
that  a  great  battle  has  once  been  fought  there.  We  find  the  names 
'  das  Winnefeld'  (the  field  of  victory),  *die  Knochenbahn'  (the  bone- 
lane),  'die  Knochenleke'  (the  bone- brook),  ' der  Mordkessel,'  (the 
kettle  of  slaughter),  and  others." 

Contrary  to  the  usual  strict  principles  of  Roman  discipline  Varus 
had  suffered  his  army  to  be  accompanied  and  impeded  by  an  immense 
train  of  baggage  waggons,  and  by  a  rabble  of  camp  followers ;  as  if 
his  troops  had  been  merely  changing  their  quarters  in  a  friendly 
country.  When  the  long  array  quitted  the  firm  level  ground,  and 
began  to  wind  its  way  among  the  woods,  the  marshes,  and  the 
ravines,  the  difficulties  of  the  march,  even  without  the  intervention 
of  an  armed  foe,  became  fearfully  apparent.  In  many  places  the  soil, 
sodden  with  rain,  was  impracticable  for  cavalry  and  even  for  infantry, 
until  trees  had  been  felled,  and  a  rude  embankment  formed  through 
the  morass. 

The  duties  of  the  engineer  were  familiar  to  all  who  served  in  the 
Roman  ranks.  But  the  crowd  and  confusion  of  the  columns  em- 
barrassed the  working  parties  of  the  soldiery,  and  in  the  midst  of 
their  toil  and  disorder  the  word  was  suddenly  passed  through  their 
rank  that  the  rear-guard  was  attacked  by  the  barbarians.  Varus  re- 
solved on  pressing  forward,  but  a  heavy  discharge  of  missiles  from 
the  woods  on  either  flank  taught  him  how  serious  was  the  peril,  and 

VOL.   XXIII.  F  P 


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390        THE  SIX  DECISIVE  BATTLES  OF  THE  WORLD. 

he  saw  his  best  men  falling  round  him  without  the  opportunity  of 
retaliation ;  for  his  light-armed  auxiliaries,  who  were  principally  of 
Germanic  race,  now  rapidly  deserted,  and  it  was  impossible  to  deploy 
the  legionaries  on  such  broken  ground  for  a  charge  against  the 
enemy.  Choosing  one  of  the  most  open  and  firm  spots  which  they 
could  force  their  way  to,  the  Romans  halted  for  the  night,  and,  faith- 
ful to  their  national  discipline  and  tactics,  formed  their  camp  amid 
the  harassing  attacks  of  the  rapidly  thronging  foes,  with  the  elaborate 
toil  and  systematic  skill,  the  traces  of  which  are  impressed  perma- 
nently on  the  soil  of  so  many  European  countries,  attesting  the  pre- 
sence in  the  olden  time  of  the  imperial  eagles. 

On  the  morrow  the  Romans  renewed  their  march ;  the  veteran 
officers  who  served  under  Varus,  now  probably  directing  the  opera- 
tions, and  hoping  to  find  the  Germans  drawn  up  to  meet  them ;  in 
which  case  they  relied  on  their  own  superior  discipline  and  tactics 
for  such  a  victory  as  should  reassure  the  supremacy  of  Rome*  But 
Arminius  was  far  too  sage  a  commander  to  lead  on  his  followers  with 
their  unwieldy  broadswords  and  inefficient  defensive  armour,  against 
the  Roman  legionaries,  fully  armed  with  helmet,  cuirass,  greaves,  and 
shield,  who  were  skilled  to  commence  the  conflict  with  a  murderous 
volley  of  heavy  javelins,  hurled  upon  the  foe  when  a  few  yards  distant, 
and  then,  witli  their  short  cut-and-thrust  swords,  to  hew  their  way 
through  all  opposition ;  preserving  the  utmost  steadiness  and  cool- 
ness, and  obeying  each  word  of  command  in  the  midst  of  strife  and 
slaughter  with  the  same  precision  and  alertness  as  if  upon  parade. 
Arminius  suffered  the  Romans  to  march  out  from  their  camp,  to  form 
first  in  line  for  action,  and  then  in  column  for  marching,  without  the 
show  of  opposition.  For  some  distance  Varus  was  allowed  to  move 
on,  only  harassed  by  slight  skirmishes,  but  struggling  with  difficulty 
through  the  broken  ground,  the  toil  and  distress  of  his  men  being 
aggravated  by  heavy  torrents  of  rain,  which  burst  upon  the  devoted 
legions,  as  if  the  angry  gods  of  Germany  were  pouring  out  the  vials 
of  their  wrath  upon  the  invaders.  But  when  fatigue  and  discourage- 
ment had  begun  to  betray  themselves  in  the  Roman  ranks,  and  a  spot 
was  reached  which  Arminius  had  rendered  additionally  difficult  of 
passage  by  barricades  of  hewn  trees,  the  fierce  shouts  of  the  Germans 
pealed  through  the  gloom  of  the  forests,  and  in  thronging  multitudes 
they  assailed  the  flanks  of  the  invaders,  pouring  in  clouds  of  darts  on 
the  encumbered  legionaries  as  they  struggled  up  the  glens  or  floun- 
dered in  the  morasses,  and  watching  every  opportunity  of  chaiging 
through  the  intervals  of  the  disjointed  column,  and  so  cutting  off  the 
communication  between  its  several  brigades;  Varus  now  ordered 
the  troops  to  be  countermarched,  in  the  hope  of  reaching  the  nearest 
Roman  garrison  on  the  Lippe.  But  retreat  now  was  as  impracticable 
as  advance ;  and  the  falling  back  of  the  Romans  only  augmented  the 
courage  of  their  assailants,  and  caused  fiercer  and  more  firequent 
charges  on  the  flanks  of  the  disheartened  army.  The  Roman  officer 
who  commanded  the  cavalry,  Numonius  Vala,  rode  off  with  his 
squadrons  in  the  vain  hope  of  escaping  by  thus  abandoning  his  com- 
rades. Unable  to  keep  together  or  force  their  way  across  the  woods 
and  swamps,  the  horsemen  were  overpowered  in  detail  and  slaugh- 
tered to  the  last  man.  The  Roman  infantry  still  held  together  and 
resisted,  but  more  through  the  instinct  of  discipline  and  bravery  than 


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IV ARMINIQS'S   VICTORY   OVER   VARUS.  391 

from  any  hope  of  success  or  escape.  Varus,  after  being  severely 
wounded  in  a  charge  of  the  Germans  against  his  part  of  the  column, 
committed  suicide  to  avoid  faUing  into  the  hands  of  those  whom  he 
had  exasperated  by  his  oppression.  One  of  the  lieutenant-generals 
of  the  army  fell  fighting ;  the  other  surrendered  to  the  enemy.  But 
mercy  to  a  fallen  foe  had  never  been  a  Roman  virtue^  and  those 
among  their  ranks  who  now  laid  down  their  arms  in  hope  of  quarter, 
drank  deep  of  the  cup  of  suffering  which  Rome  had  held  to  the  lips 
of  many  a  brave  but  unfortunate  enemy.  The  infuriated  Germans 
slaughtered  their  oppressors  with  deliberate  ferocity;  and  those 
prisoners  who  were  not  hewn  to  pieces  on  the  spot,  were  only  pre- 
served to  perish  by  a  more  cruel  death  in  cold  blood. 

The  bulk  of  the  Roman  army  fought  steadily  and  stubbornly,  fre- 
quently repelling  the  masses  of  the  assailants ;  but  gradually  losing 
the  compactness  of  their  array,  and  becoming  weaker  and  weaker 
beneath  the  incessant  shower  of  darts  and  Oie  reiterated  assaults 
of  the  vigorous  and  unincumbered  Germans,  at  last,  in  a  series 
of  desperate  attacks,  the  column  was  pierced  through  and  through, 
two  of  the  eagles  captured,  and  the  Roman  host,  which  on  the 
yester  morning  had  marched  forth  in  such  pride  and  might,  now 
broken  up  into  confused  fragments,  either  fell  fighting  beneath 
the  overpowering  numbers  of  the  enemy,  or  perished  in  the  swamps 
and  woods  in  unavailing  efforts  at  flight.  Few,  very  few,  ever 
saw  again  the  led  bank  of  the  Rhine.  One  body  of  brave  vete- 
rans, arraying  themselves  in  a  ring  on  a  little  mound,  beat  off 
every  charge  of  the  Germans,  and  prolonged  their  honourable  resist- 
ance to  the  close  of  that  dreadful  day.  The  traces  of  a  feeble 
attempt  at  forming  a  ditch  and  mound  attested  in  afler  years  the 
spot  where  the  last  of  the  Romans  passed  their  night  of'^  suffering 
and  despair.  But  on  the  morrow  this  remnant  also,  worn  out  with 
hunger,  wounds,  and  toil,  was  charged  by  the  victorious  Germans, 
and  either  massacred  on  the  spot,  or  offered  up  in  fearful  rites  at  the 
altars  of  the  terrible  deities  of^the  old  mythology  of  the  North. 

Never  was  victory  more  decisive,  never  was  the  liberation  of  an 
oppressed  people  more  instantaneous  and  complete.  Throughout 
Germany  the  Roman  garrisons  were  assailed  and  cut  off;  and  within 
a  few  days  afler  Varus  had  fallen  the  German  soil  was  freed  from  the 
foot  of  an  invader. 

The  Germans  did  not  pursue  their  victory  beyond  their  own 
territory.  But  that  victory  secured  at  once  and  for  ever  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  Teutonic  race.  Rome  sent,  indeed,  her  legions  again 
mto  Germany,  to  parade  a  temporary  superiority;  but  all  hopes  of 
permanent  conquests  were  abandoned  by  Augustus  and  his  succes- 
sors. The  blow  which  Arminius  had  struck,  never  was  forgotten. 
Roman  fear  disguised  itself  under  the  specious  title  of  moderation : 
and  the  Rhine  became  the  acknowledged  boundary  of  the  two  na- 
tions, until  the  fifth  century  of  our  era,  when  the  Germans  became 
a^n  the  assailants,  and  carved  with  their  conquering  swords  the  pro- 
vmces  of  Imperial  Rome  into  the  kingdoms  of  modem  Europe. 


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392 


NARRATIVE  OP  THE  WRECK  OP  THE  ARCHDUKE 
CHARLES. 

BY  A  NAVAL   OFFICER. 

A  SERIES  of  events  so  extraordinary  as  those  about  to  be  narrated, 
have  seldom  (except  under  the  garb  of  fiction)  appeared  to  claim  the 
attention  of  the  public ;  and^  it  is  hoped,  that^  having  relation  to  the  fate 
of  those  who  have  **  fought  the  nation's  battles,"  they  will  find  a  twofold 
interest  in  the  breast  of  every  lover  of  his  country. 

The  most  natural  feeling  that  will  pervade  the  mind,  after  perusal, 
next  to  the  consideration  of  the  truly  miraculous  incidents  related,  will 
be  astonishment  that  they  have  remained  so  long  unrecorded ;  certainly 
it  cannot  have  arisen  from  want  of  sufficient  interest.  The  more  than 
probable  cause  is,  that  none  of  our  able  nautical  writers  have  been  for> 
tunate  enough  to  come  into  communication  with  any  of  the  participators 
in  this  calamitous  af&ir.  It  has^  however,  been  otherwise  with  one, 
who  now  submits  <<  a  plaJA  unvarnished  tale "  to  his  readers.  His 
information  is  collected  Arom  those  who  shared  the  danger,  and  who 
are  now  reaping  the  reward  of  their  services  to  their  country,  in 
peaceful  tranquillity,  at  and  around  Halifax  and  Nova  Scotia. 

The  author  has  himself  seen  some  service  of  a  rather  more  stirring 
character  than  sailing  in  the  experimental  squadrons  of  her  most  gra- 
cious majesty,  Victoria.  He  has  ploughed  the  deep,  and  stood  the  can- 
non's roar,  when  George  the  Third  was  king ;  and  he  thinks  that  an  old 
sailor  cannot  perform  a  more  useful  act  to  his  country,  than  in  handing 
to  posterity  (however  imperfectly  done)  the  heroic  conduct  of  an  old 
soldier. 

The  remarks  introduced^  appertaining  to  the  manner  in  which  the 
British  army  is  officered,  will,  it  is  hoped,  repay  the  perusal ;  they  are 
pertinent  to  the  matter  with  which  they  are  connected. 


At  the  close  of  the  late  American  war,  the  Royal  Nova  Scotia  Regi- 
ment of  Infantry,  under  the  command  of  Colonel  C.  H.  Darling,  a  corps 
much  distinguished  by  its  behaviour  in  Canada,  marched  to  Quebec. 
As  it  was  probable  that  their  services  would  be  no  longer  required,  they 
received  orders  to  prepare  for  embarkation,  with  the  view  of  pro- 
ceeding to  Halifax,  and,  if  no  counter-orders  were  received  there,  to  be 
disbanded  with  the  other  Canadian  regiments. 

For  this  purpose  the  <<  Archduke  Charles/'  a  remarkably  fine  frigate- 
built  ship,  of  550  tons,  was  engaged  for  the  transport  of  the  right  wing 
of  the  regiment ;  the  left-wing  having  previously  been  sent  away  for  the 
same  destination.  The  troops  embarked  in  this  ship  consisted  of  eleven 
officers,  the  staff,  t^o  hundred  rank  and  file,  forty-eight  women  and 
children,  which,  together  with  the  crew  of  the  vessel,  comprised  nearly 
three  hundred  individuals.     The  ship  was  also  provided  with  a  king's 


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WRECK   OF   THE  ARCHDUKE  CHARLES.  393 

pilot.     How  far  he  was  fitted  for  his  responsible  situation  subsequent 
events  will  develop. 

The  "  Archduke  Charles  "  left  the  harbour  of  Quebec  on  the  morning 
of  the  29th  of  May,  1 816,  with  a  fresh  breeze  from  the  E.N.E.  Nothing 
worthy  of  particular  remark  occurred  for  the  first  ten  days  of  the  voy- 
age. 

On  the  evening  of  the  tenth  day  from  the  ship's  leaving  Quebec  she 
cleared  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence,  and,  upon  making  what  was  deemed  a 
sufiScient  offing,  the  pilot  directed  the  ship's  course  to  be  altered  to  the 
westward,  with  the  intention  of  making  Halifax  on  the  following  day. 
About  7  P.M.,  the  atmosphere  being  at  the  time  remarkably  clear,  a  black 
circle  was  observed  to  windward  on  the  horizon,  stretching  from  north-east 
to  south-west — ^the  well-known  forerunner  of  a  fog-bank ;  and  in  a  short 
time  the  ship  was  surrounded  by  one  of  those  dense  fogs  so  common  on 
that  coast.  Knowing  that  they  were  now  arrived  in  the  track  of  the 
homeward-bound  West  India  ships,  and  the  fog  increasing  to  a  pitchy 
blackness,  accompanied  by  heavy  rain,  with  continued  squalls,  a  con** 
sultation  was  held  among  the  officers  of  the  ship  as  to  the  most  pru- 
dent means  to  adopt;  and  it  was  deemed  most  advisable,  at  the 
suggestion  of  the  pilot,  to  continue  the  course  under  easy  sail.  The 
consequence  was,  that  look-outs  were  placed  forward,  the  drum  was 
order^  to  be  kept  beating  at  intervals,  and  other  precautions  taken  to 
prevent  collision,  in  case  of  falling  in  with  any  ship  during  the  night. 
It  was  also  deemed  desirable  to  have  a  portion  of  the  troops  on  deck,  to 
assist  the  watch. 

After  the  arrangements  for  the  night  had  been  concluded,  those  who 
were  not  appointed  to  duty  retired  to  their  berths ;  among  these  was 
Lieutenant  Charles  Stewart,  then  commanding  the  g^renadier  company, 
whose  subsequent  brave  conduct  was  the  means  of  rescuing  from  a 
terrible  death  nearly  the  whole  of  the  persons  embarked  in  this  ill- 
fated  ship.  He  felt  himself  extremely  fatigued  by  continuing  so 
much  on  deck,  as  he  had  already  done,  at  the  request  of  his  colonel, 
— for  he  had  scarcely  been  one  night  in  bed  during  the  passage.  He 
had  hardly  descended  to  hb  cabin,  for  the  purpose  of  taking  some  need- 
ful repose,  when,  to  his  surprise,  he  was  sent  for  by  Colonel  Darling,  who 
stated  to  him  "  that  it  was  his  particular  wish  (considering  the  extreme 
danger  in  which  the  ship  was  placed  by  the  density  of  the  fog,)  that  he 
should  remain  on  deck  during  the  night ;  as,  in  fact,  his  wife  could  not 
rest  in  her  bed  unless  he  consented  to  do  so.  Although  Lieutenant 
Stewart  pointed  out  the  exertion  he  had  already  undergone,  and  the  ab- 
solute necessity  that  he  should  have  some  relaxation  of  duty,  he  was  too 
good  a  soldier  to  murmur  at  the  request — in  truth,  it  may  be  said,  com- 
mand of  his  superior  officer. 

After  the  usual  courtesies  had  been  exchanged,  and  Colonel  Darling 
had  informed  Lieutenant  Stewart  that  some  refreshments  would  be  left 
out  for  his  especial  use  during  the  night,  ten  men  were  ordered  under  his 
command  to  the  forecastle,  where  he  was  to  take  his  station ;  and  ten 
more,  under  Captain  Glennie,  were  ordered  to  the  after  part  of  the  ship. 
The  rain  continued  to  fall  incessantly,  sudden  squalls  of  wind,  with  a 
heavy  sea  rising,  occasioned  the  ship  to  <*  work  "  much ;  but  it  was  im- 
possible, from  the  darkness  of  the  night,  and  the  impenetrable  density  of 
the  fog,  to  see  half  her  length ;  however,  as  it  was  known  that  the  king's 
pilot  had  himself  taken  the  wheel,  a  degree  of  confidence  was  generally 


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894  NARRATIVE  OF  THE  WRECK 

created  in  the  miocb  of  all  on  board,  and  hopes  were  entertained  that 
not  anything  of  serious  moment  would  occur  before  daylight,  which  was 
anxiously  looked  for  by  crew,  as  well  as  by  passengers. 

At  about  10  P.M.  tlie  ^Mook-out"  stationed  on  the  bowsprit  hailed  the 
forecastle,  and  directed  Lieutenant  Stewart's  attention  to  what  he 
thought  was  a  light  a-head ;  and  by  his  looking  directly  in  the  line  of 
the  horison,  over  the  ship's  bulwark,  Lieutenant  Stewart  fancied  that  he 
also  observed  it ;  he  immediately  repaired  aft  to  the  quarter-deck  to  re» 
port  the  same  to  the  pilot,  when,  to  his  surprise,  he  there  found  Colonel 
Darling  (who,  he  supposed,  had  retired  to  his  cabin)  handing  his 
majesty's  pilot  a  glass  of  hot  grog.  Upon  Lieutenant  Stewart  mak- 
ing his  report,  he  was  replied  to  in  an  uncourteous  manner  by  the  pilot, 
and  ordered  by  his  colonel  back  to  his  station.  He  had  not  laog 
returned  forward,  when  the  <*  look-out**  again  called  'Might  a-head," 
and  Lieutenant  Stewart  placing  his  eye  in  the  same  position  as  before, 
distinctly  saw  what  he  considered  a  flickering  light,  and  deemed  it 
again  prudent  to  go  to  the  quarter-deck,  and  to  report  a  second  time 
the  result  of  his  observation.  The  answer  he  received  was,  **  Sir,  I 
have  been  a  king's  pilot  on  this  coast  for  twenty-five  years,  and  I  know 
where  I  am***  The  colonel  then  said,  ^  Mr.  Stewart,  you  will  return 
to  your  poet  immediately."  To  which  Lieutenant  Stewart  replied, 
**  Sir,  I  have  done  what  I  considered  my  duty.**  After  the  second  rebuff 
Lieutenant  Stewart  considered  it  useless  to  make  any  further  reports, 
and  with  a  heavy  presentiment  on  his  mind,  he  continued  at  his  post. 

But  a  short  time  had  elapsed  between  Lieutenant  Stewart's  return  to 
the  forecastle,  the  rain  still  pouring  its  torrents  with  increased  violence^ 
and  the  fog  continuing  equally  thick,  when  an  occurrence  took  place 
which  had  all  the  attributes  of  supernatural  agency,  not  unlike  the 
imaginary  vision,  for  ages  "  talked  of"  by  sailors,  and  considered  by 
them  as  a  certain  warning  of  some  disaster.  It  was  about  11.80  POf. 
when  one  of  the  sailors  suddenly  called  Lieutenant  Stewart's  attention 
to  a  dark  object,  which  appeared  to  shoot  past  the  bows  of  the  vessel, 
with  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  and  the  words  <<  take  care  of  the  rocks," 
were  distinctly  heard.  Lieutenant  Stewart  immediately  ordered  the 
drum  to  cease,  and  although  the  most  profound  silence  was  ob- 
served for  some  time  afterwards  by  those  on  the  forecastle,  nothing 
more  could  be  heard,  and  it  was  considered  to  have  been  a  delusion* 

About  midnight.  Lieutenant  Stewart  finding  himself  nearly  worn  out 
from  continued  watching,  and  the  heavy  weight  of  his  saturated  clothes, 
determined  to  leave  the  deck  for  a  few  minutes.  He  had  scarcely 
got  below,  thrown  off  his  cloak,  and  was  about  to  partake  of  those 
refreshments  which  his  colonel  had  left  for  his  use,  when  to  his 
dismay  he  felt  the  ship  strike  with  a  tremendous  crash,  and  ere  he 
could  gain  the  deck,  the  sea  had  struck  the  ship  aft,  carried  away  the 
bulwarks,  and  with  it  the  whole  of  the  round  house,  sweeping  over^ 
board  with  the  wreck  two  women  who  were  sleeping  there.  Thcwe,  and 
those  only,  who  have  been  placed  in  like  circumstances,  and  have  been 
eye-witnesses,  can  form  a  correct  idea  of  the  horrible  scene  that  in- 
stantly ensued.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  describe  the  wild  and 
maniac-like  actions  which  take  place  in  a  ship  crowded  with  people, 
at  the  moment  of  a  wreck  like  this.  Amidst  the  raging  of  a  boiling 
sea,  in  total  darkness,  the  screams  of  the  women  and  children,  the  total 
loss  of  all  command  over  the  men,  husbands  forsaking  their  wives, 


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OF  THE  ARCHDUKE   CHARLES.  S9& 

seeking  only  their  own  preservation,  wives  rushing  for  protection 
to  others^  present  an  awful  spectacle.  In  this  instance^  an  officer  of 
undoubted  courage,  hitherto  an  affectionate  husband^  heedless  of  the 
intreaties  of  his  beseeching  wife,  rushed  up  the  main  rigging  and  left 
her  to  her  £&te.  The  wife  of  Colonel  Darling,  catching  the  sound  of 
Lieutenant  Stewart's  voice,  flew  towards  him  and  clasping  him  round 
the  knees,  besought  him  in  the  most  piteous  language  **  to  save  her 
life ;"  with  the  greatest  difficulty  he  was  able  to  extricate  himself  from 
her  death-like  grasp,  and  to  hasten  forward. 

The  ship  appeared  to  have  struck  on  a  sunken  rock,  the  sea  making 
a  clear  breach  over  her,  and  evidently  she  was  fast  filling ;  several  were 
washed  away  the  moment  they  escaped  from  their  beds,  but  nearly  the 
whole  of  the  persons  on  board,  the  crew,  the  troops,  the  women  and 
children,  reached  the  fore  part  of  the  ship,  where  they  remained  huddled 
together  in  one  mass  of  human  despair,  watching  with  intensity  for  the 
coming  day.  At  about  5  a.m.  the  light  was  sufficient  to  enable  them  to 
discover  that  the  ship  had  struck  on  one  of  the  Jeddore  Rocks,  lying 
about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  coast,  and  sixty  miles  east  of  Halifox. 
How  she  had  got  there  during  the  night,  still  remains  a  mystery ;  it  is  said 
to  have  been  afterwards  accounted  for  by  the  supposition  that,  although 
the  ship^s  head  had  been  kept  to  her  course,  the  current  had  gradually 
caused  her  to  near  the  land. 

As  daylight  increased,  they  could  then  perceive  that  at  about  the 
distance  of  fifty  yards  from  the  ship's  bows,  was  a  rock  above  water, 
but  against  which  the  sea  lashed  itself  with  terrific  violence.  To  get  a 
communication  with  this  rock  by  means  of  a  rope,  was  now  considered 
their  only  hope.  One  suggestion  followed  another,  and  was  as  quickly 
abandoned.  Among  the  crew  was  a  seaman,  a  **  Trafalgar  man,**  and 
who  had,  for  that  reason,  been  looked  upon  with  some  consideration ; 
his  advice  it  was  deemed  would  be  of  importance.  He  was  sought 
for,  but  alas !  notwithstanding  the  peril  of  the  moment,  with  death 
every  instant  threatening  his  existence,  he  who  had  escaped  the 
bloody  battle,  was  found  insensibly  drunk.  He  with  others,  aban- 
doning themselves  to  their  fkte,  it  was  soon  discovered,  had  forced 
the  spirit  stores;  some  of  the  men  had  likewise  broken  open  a 
chest  of  specie  and  loaded  themselves  with  doubloons,  the  weight  of 
which  afterwards  cost  them  their  lives.  At  length,  as  if  by  general  in- 
stinct, all  eyes  were  directed  towards  Lieutenant  Stewart,  who  had 
stood  with  folded  arms,  calmly  surveying  the  intervening  gulf  between 
him  and  the  rock,  to  pass  which,  tne  mountainous  sea  every  instant 
wasting  itself  in  a  long  line  of  foam,  seemed  to  bid  defiance  to  all 
human  power ;  each  man  of  the  crew  had  declared  the  attempt  as  utter- 
ly beyond  the  accomplishment  of  man,  and  the  soldiers  alike  shrunk 
from  the  attempt  Lieutenant  Stewart  was  known  to  be  a  most  expert 
swimmer,  and  at  length  the  silent  thought  broke  into  earnest  solicita- 
tion. Instantly  the  soldiers,  so  highly  was  he  held  in  their  estimation, 
amid  the  wild  confusion  which  reigned  around  them,  fell  on  their  knees 
and  besought  him  to  save  their  lives.  A  half  inch  rope  of  sufficient 
length  was  soon  procured ;  divesting  himself  of  clothes,  except  a  pair  of 
light  trowsers  and  shirt,  and  buckling  his  military  cap  tightly,  with  the 
rope  secured  round  his  body,  he  dashed  from  the  fore  chains  into  the 
boiling  surge;  he  was  immediately  lost  sight  of  by  those  on  board, 
having  been  sucked  under  the  ship,  but  recovering  himself  and  swim- 


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396  NARRATIVE  OF  THE   WRECK 

miDg  with  astoniBhing  vigour,  which  nothing  but  an  indomitable  courage 
could  sustain,  he  ultimately  gained  the  rock,  upon  which  he  was  thrown 
by  one  huge  wave  with  terrific  force.  Bruised  and  cut  as  he  found  him- 
self, his  first  thought  was  to  secure  the  rope  to  the  rock ;  in  doing  this 
he  experienced  much  difficulty,  for  although  it  presented  many  rugged 
points,  there  was  not  one  to  which  he  could  apparently  attach  it,  with 
sufficient  security  to  allow  those  on  board  to  haul  on  it.  The  seaweed 
with  which  the  rock  was  nearly  covered,  was  another  obstacle,  as  it  pre- 
vented him  getting  a  sure  footing ;  however,  after  several  efforts,  he 
managed  to  crawl  to  the  summit,  and  at  length  he  firmly  secured  it. 
Having  swallowed  a  large  quantity  of  salt  water  in  his  arduous  under- 
taking, he  felt  extreme  thirst,  and  perceiving  a  cavity  at  the  top  of  the 
rock  filled  with  water,  he  concludcNi  it  was  fresh,  from  the  heavy  rain 
which  had  fallen ;  he  eagerly  filled  his  cap,  and  as  eagerly  drank  of  its 
contents  ;  but  unhappily  he  found  it  to  be  as  briny  as  the  waves  from 
which  he  had  just  emerged.  Those  on  board  were  as  yet  in  ignorance 
of  hb  success,  or  indeed  of  his  being  alive ;  they  had  "  paid  out"  the 
rope  gpradnally,  and  in  sufficient  quantity  to  enable  him  to^  veach.  the 
rock,  but  were  afraid  to  haul,  the  fog  continuing  so  thick  that  they 
were  only  able  to  discern  the  base  of  it ;  and  this  Lieutenant  Stewart 
himself  discovered,  after  he  had  fastened  the  rope,  for  he  could  not  see 
the  ship  in  the  position  in  which  he  was  placed. 

It  was  a  period  of  intense  anxiety  and  uncertainty  to  nearly  three 
hundred  human  beings ;  if  he  were  lost,  their  last  hope  of  life  had  fled ; 
their  straining  eyes  were  all  fixed  on  one  small  spot,  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  only  man  out  of  so  great  a  number,  who  had  shewn  nerve  enough 
to  hazard  so  bold  an  enterprise.  Lieutenant  Stewart  now  attempted  to 
descend  from  where  he  was  and  to  get  as  near  as  possible  to  the  wreck, 
to  enable  those  on  board  to  see  him,  and  to  give  them  warning  that  he 
had  succeeded  in  fixing  the  rope,  by  a  preconcerted  signal  of  waving  his 
cap  ;  but  on  endeavouring  to  retrace  his  steps,  he  found  that  the  waves 
were  dashing  with  increased  violence  on  the  side  of  the  rock  which  he 
must  traverse ;  he  consequently  began  cautiously  to  creep  round  on  the 
opposite  side,  when,  to  his  dismay,  he  found  that  it  was  perpendicular 
with  the  water,  and  in  his  anxiety,  attempting  to  hold  himself  on  by  the 
sea-weed,  the  slippery  substance  gave  way,  and  he  was  again  precipi- 
tated into  the  foaming  breakers.  From  the  wounds  he  had  already  re- 
ceived in  almost  every  part  of  his  body,  when  previously  hurled  with 
such  violence  on  the  rock,  and  his  limbs  having  become  stiff  with  the 
intense  coldness  of  the  atmosphere,  he  at  first  was  unable  to  make  the 
slightest  effort  to  save  himself,  but,  uniting  his  powerful  strength  to  the 
consciousness  of  the  importance  of  the  task  for  which  he  laboured,  and 
aware  of  the  inutility  of  what  he  had  already  accomplished  in  securing 
the  rope,  unless  he  could  give  intimation  of  it  to  those  on  the  wreck,  he 
redoubled  the  efforts  of  his  Herculean  frame,  notwithstanding  his  being 
repeatedly  driven  back  by  the  mighty  adversary  with  which  he  was  con- 
tending. When  nature  had  nearly  resigned  the  contest,  after  half  an 
hour*s  struggling  to  gain  the  mastery  of  the  foaming  water,  he  reached 
the  side  nearest  the  ship,  and  was  again  thrown  on  the  rock  opposite  the 
wreck  ;  instinctively  catching  a  branch  of  the  sea-weed,  he  was  enabled 
to  maintain  his  hold  until  the  retiring  wave  left  him  lying  on  his  back, 
in  a  state  of  exhaustion  approaching  to  insensibility.  He  was  now  for 
the  first  time  seen  from  the  wreck ;  they  anxiously  waited  for  the  signal ; 


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OF  THE  ARCHDUKE  CHARLES.  397 

this  he  was  soon  enabled  to  give  them,  and  instantly  all  on  board  raised 
a  joyful  exclamation  at  the  prospect  of  escape  from  their  awful  situa- 
tion. They  began  to  haul  on  the  rope,  and  found  it  fast ;  the  ship  had 
by  this  time  fortunately  '<  forged"  considerably  ahead,  and  consequently 
her  bows  approached  nearer  to  the  rock«  No  time  was  now  lost  in 
launching  the  jolly  boat,  (the  only  one  remaining  on  board)  which  they 
slung  from  the  *'  cat-head."  Having  accomplished  this,  and  being  able 
to  keep  her  by  the  aid  of  the  rope  under  the  end  of  the  bowsprit,  one  of 
the  sailors  soon  hauled  her  to  the  rock,  bringring  with  him  another  and 
stouter  rope ;  this  was  secured  like  the  former  one,  and  as  the  ship 
evidently  could  not  long  hold  together,  it  was  resolved  that  the  women 
and  children  should  be  the  first  taken  off  the  wreck.  As  the  boat  could 
now  be  "  kept  steady"  under  the  bowsprit^  the  women  were  slung  two  at 
a  time  and  lowered  into  her ;  the  size  of  the  boat  would  only  admit  of 
that  number  each  trip,  with  two  men  to  pull  her. 

Lieutenant  Stewart  having  partially  recovered  from  the  state  of  al- 
most insensibility  in  which  he.  had  been  lying,  raised  himself,  for  the 
purpose  of  assisting  those  who  might  be  brought  to  the  rock.  He  was 
now  fully  convinced  that  its  rugged  and  slippery  surface  did  not  contain 
suflScient  space  to  allow  of  even  standing-room  for  the  whole  of  those  on 
board ;  but,  the  instant  after  he  saw  the  boat  leave  the  ship  with  its  first 
freight,  containing  the  colonel's  wife,  her  two  children,  and  the  assistant- 
surgeon  of  the  regiment,  the  fog  suddenly  cleared  (in  the  form  of  a  long 
vista)  towards  the  coast,  and  discovered  to  him  another  rock,  of  appa- 
rently much  larger  dimensions,  and  of  considerablv  more  elevation  above 
the  sea.  Consequently,  as  the  boat  neared  him,  he  directed  their  atten- 
tion by  signs,  and  as  those  in  her  now  observed  it,  they  pulled  towards 
the  second  rock,  and,  finding  the  swell  much  less  than  outside,  they  were 
enabled  to  land  their  freight  in  safety.  In  this  manner  they  continued 
to  transport  from  the  wreck  the  whole  of  the  women  and  children. 

In  the  meantime  a  running  toggle  had  been  rigged  on  the  ropes,  for 
hauling  the  men  on  the  rock  where  Lieutenant  Stewart  was,  and  many 
of  the  soldiers,  as  well  as  the  whole  of  the  oflSoers,  had  been  drawn  from 
the  wreck  some  time  before  all  the  women  could  be  got  off. 

An  occurrence  here  took  place,  shewing  how  the  love  of  life  will  pre- 
vail over  all  other  considerations.  Still,  instances  such  as  the  follow- 
ing, it  is  to  be  hoped,  for  the  credit  of  human  nature,  are  rare 
indeed.  Horrible  as  the  situation  of  those  on  board  was  momentarily 
becoming,  yet  one  can  scarcely  believe  that  the  dearest  ties  on  earth 
which  man  possesses  could  be  severed  and  forgotten,  under  any  circum*- 

stances,  however  dreadful.     As  Captain  W was  about  to  quit  the 

wreck  by  the  rope,  his  wife,  who  had  been  lashed  in  the  fore-rigging,  to 
prevent  her  being  washed  away,  perceiving  his  intention,  raised  her  in- 
fant from  her  breast,  and,  with  out-stretched  arms  and  hideous  shrieks 
implored  him  not  to  leave  her.  She  and  her  child  were  alike  unheeded. 
This  was  seen  by  the  soldiers  already  landed ;  many  of  them  belonging 
to  the  captain's  own  company.  On  his  arriving  at  the  rock,  Lieutenant 
Stewart  could  not  forbear  pithily  saying  to  him, 

"  Ah  I  mj  good  fellow,  you  '11  never  be  turned  to  a  pillar  of  salt,  for 
looking  behmd  you." 

The  poor  lady  and  her  babe  were,  however,  happily  saved,  with  the 
other  females*  Women  are  proverbially  said  to  be  of  a  forgiving  dis- 
position ;  but  the  writer  has  not  been  able  to  ascertain  if  the  cap- 


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398  NARRATIYE  OF  THE  WRECK 

tain  ever  received  tbat  pardon,  to  which  his  conduct  so  little  entitled 
him. 

It  was  evident  to  those  still  on  the  wreck  that  she  could  not  last  long,  and 
that  no  time  must  he  lost  by  those  remaining  on  board.  Several,  in  their 
anxiety  to  escape,  were  washed  awav>  and  sunk,  to  rise  no  more;  These 
were  most  likely  the  men  who  had  loaded  themselves  with  the  gold  they 
had  obtained  from  the  treasure-chest.  Ultimately,  however,  nearly  the 
entire  of  the  male  portion  of  the  passengers  and  crew  effected  a  safe 
landing  on  the  rock,  and  were  apparently  for  a  time  rescued  from  their 
impending  fate. 

The  total  loss  of  life,  including  men,  women,  and  children,  which  had 
taken  place  from  the  ship*8  first  striking,  amounted  to  ten  in  number. 
The  last  man  who  left  her  (one  of  the  sergeants)  had  not  done  so  more 
than  ten  minutes  when  an  overwhelming  sea  struck  her,  she  heeled  over, 
and  instantly  disappeared. 

It  now  became  evident  that  in  a  short  time  considerable  difficidty 
would  be  experienced  with  respect  to  space.  The  rock  was  crowded,  and 
the  sea  breidLing  over  them  at  every  point.  Colonel  Darling  proposed 
that  the  officers  should  be  immediately  removed  in  the  boat  to  the  rock 
on  which  the  women  had  been  carried.  This  proposition,  as  might 
be  expected,  met  with  considerable  opposition  fit>m  the  soldiers,  and 
suppressed  murmurs  soon  gave  way  to  openly«expressed  objection  on 
their  part  to  such  an  exclusively  invidious  selection.  The  boat  was, 
however,  ordered  to  approach  a  projecting  point  of  the  rock,  and  Colo&el 
Darling,  with  one  of  the  officers,  whom  he  had  selected,  were  about  to 
step  into  it,  when  the  soldiers  simultaneously  rushed  to  the  spot,  and 
drove  the  colonel  and  his  companion  away.  Had  the  boat  been  suffi- 
ciently near  at  the  time,  certiun  destruction  and  loss  of  life  would  have 
been  the  consequence,  as  more  than  twentv  men  were  ready  to  have 
dashed  into  her,  and  she  would,  of  course,  have  sunk  instantly.  Ba« 
coming  desperate  at  their  situation,  and  maddened  to  frenzy  at  the 
thought  of  beiBg  left  to  perish  by  their  commander  and  officers,  the  soU 
diers  now  broke  out  into  open  mutiny.  All  subordination  was  at  an  end, 
and  language  uttered  by  the  men,  regardless  of  all  distinction  as  to  rank ; 
each  man  avowing  that  he  considered  his  life  equally  dear  to  him  as  the 
colonel  and  officers  did  theirs,  and  resolutely  maintained  that  he  would 
not  permit  them  to  leave  the  rock,  unless  a  portion  of  the  men  were  re- 
moved at  the  same  time.  All  attempts  to  reason  or  to  command  were 
found  to  be  utterly  futile :  wild  confusion  reigned,  and  self-preservation 
seemed  paramount  in  the  breast  of  every  man.  The  waves  were  per^ 
ceptibly  advancing  higher  up  the  rock ;  Init  all  power  of  reasoning  with 
men  placed  in  this  dreadful  situation  was  totally  useless.  The  boat  still 
remained  by  them,  holding  on  with  difficulty  to  the  ropes,  which  weire 
secured  to  the  rock. 

Amidst  this  mass  of  frantic  beings  lay  Lieutenant  Stewart,  nearly 
covered  with  blood,  from  the  wounds  he  had  received,  and  it  was  con- 
sidered by  the  men  that  he  was  dead,  or  dying ;  but,  roused  to  animatioD 
by  the  contention  going  on  between  his  commanding-officer  and  the  sol- 
diers, and  the  yells  and  screams  of  others,  he  raised  himself  on  his  fbet, 
and  learning  the  cause,  he  addressed  the  men  energetically,  and,  in  lan- 
guage which  they  could  not  mistake.  He  represented  to  them  the  con- 
sequence of  their  remaming  long  where  they  were,  without  aid  ,*  that 
certain  death  would  be  the  result ;  strengthening  his  argument  by  con- 


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OF  THE  ARCHDUKB  CHAELES.  399 

vinciDg  them  that  the  only  commuDication  they  could  obtain  with  the 
land  was  by  means  of  the  boat ;  that  if  she  were  lost,  they  must  all 
perish ;  that  he  knew  they  would  recollect  that  they  were  British  soldiers ; 
and  he  declared  hb  resolution,  that  if  they  would  permit  the  colonel, 
officers,  and  crew  to  be  taken  away  in  the  boat,  he  would  stand  by  them, 
and  share  their  fate,  and  that,  should  opportunity  offer,  he  would  be  the 
last  man  to  quit  the  rock ;  adding,  that  whilst  this  was  his  determination, 
where  was  the  man  among  them  who  would  so  far  forget  himself  as  to 
dare  to  stir  one  step  ? 

His  address  was  electric  :  the  rock,  which  the  instant  previously  to  his 
raising  himself  had  been  one  scene  of  terrible  commotion,  became  at  its 
conclusion  one  of  comparatively  passive  tranquillity.  Each  man  drop« 
ped,  or  crossed  his  arms ;  their  reasoning  faculties  appeared  to  have  re- 
turned simultaneously ;  order  and  subordination  instantly  took  the  place 
of  confusion  and  mutiny.  The  voice  of  this  brave  and  heroic  man  stilled 
the  raging  of  the  human  storm.  Dreadful  as  was  the  prospect,  or  the 
hope  a£  relief,  this  offer  of  8elf'>devotion,  by  one  individual  in  whom  they 
could  place  confidence,  and  whose  previous  conduct  had  already  stamped 
him  in  their  minds  as  their  saviour,  at  once  restored  them  to  their 
senses.  They  immediately  and  willingly  obeyed  his  orders,  formed 
themselves  as  he  commanded,  as  nearly  as  was  possible  into  a  solid 
square,  and  permitted  the  colonel,  officers,  and  others,  to  be  taken  in  the 
boat  to  the  other  rocL  As  two  persons  could  only  be  taken  at  each 
trip,  the  last  time  it  left  it  contained  but  one  officer,  who  said  to  Lieu- 
tenant Stewart,— 

^  Now  is  the  only  chance  to  save  your  life.  This  rock  will  soon  be 
covered  with  water.    Come  with  me." 

Lieutenant  Stewart  replied,  that  he  had  pledged  himself  to  remun  by 
the  men,  and  nothing  should  tempt  him  to  swerve  from  his  resolve ; 
that  he  would  abide  his  &te,  be  what  it  might.  The  consequence  was, 
that  the  colonel,  officers,  and  crew  of  the  ship,  with  his  majesty's  pilot, 
were  all  safely  landed  on  the  rock  **  in  shore,**  and  Lieutenant  Stewart 
was  left,  with  two  hundred  and  eight  soldiers,  awaiting  the  chances  of 
an  improbable  rescue. 

And  here  the  writer  of  these  pages  will  take  leave  to  make  a  slight 
digression  from  his  narrative,  to  allude  to  a  subject  which  has  occu|Med 
the  attention  of  some  of  our  most  able  statesmen,  men  equally  of  out 
own  times,  as  well  as  of  those  past. 

With  the  view  of  demonstrating  the  advantages  resulting  to  the 
nation,  equally  with  the  w^being  of  the  army,  that  its  officers  should 
be  selected  from  the  higher  classes  of  society,  and  pertinently  illustrative 
how  dependant  is  the  elect  upon  the  cause,  are  introduced  the  following 
remarks  relative  to  the  officers  of  the  British  army. 

That  the  Britbh  army  is  too  exduHvely  queered  has  been  a  question 
mooted,  generally,  by  those  least  acquainted  with  the  subject,  be  their 
rank  iu  society,  or  their  unquestionable  knowledge  in  other  matters,  what 
it  might  Most  usually  the  arguments  advanced,  tend  to  shew  that  the 
private  soldier  in  our  service  has  not  that  opportunity  or  point  of  emu- 
lation within  his  perception,  however  great  be  his  exertions,  to  rise  to 
the  rank  and  station  of  a  commissioned  officer,  which,  in  the  armies  of 
most  foreign  powers,  is  more  frequently  conferred.  That  it  is  so 
is  probably  the  truth ;  but  those  who  adopt  this  doctrine  are  invariably 
persona  who  know  not  what  it  u  to  have  that  peculiar  and  onerous 


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400  NARRATIVE  OF  THE  WRECK 

charge  of  others'  conduct,  which  engrosses  the  attention  of  an  officer  in 
the  army  placed  over  a  hody  of  men  whose  characters  and  dispositions 
possess  every  degree  of  shade. 

The  constitution  of  the  British  army  is  well  known ;  the  private  sol- 
diers are  (perhaps,  with  the  exception  of  the  household  brigade),  gene- 
rally obtained  from  the  least-educated  class  of  the  community,  conse- 
quently they  have  to  be  instructed  not  only  in  their  military  or  physical 
duties,  but  their  mental  capacities  need  equal  attention,  that  they  may 
be  taught  gradually  to  comprehend  the  advantages  which  accrue  to 
themselves,  as  well  as  to  their  country,  by  a  strict  observance  of  subor- 
dination.    He  is  thus,  in  time»  imperceptibly  educated  for  the  station  of 
society  in  which,  on  his  entering  the  army,  he  is  at  first  placed,  and  the 
great  question  is,  whether  he  be  fitted  to  be  removed  to  one  widely  dif- 
fering from  it     Let  it  be  considered  who  are  his  instructors :  he  owes 
the  knowledge  of  his  military  functions  to  his  corporal  and  his  sergeant, 
his  companions  when  off  duty,  his  commanders  when  on,  nor  has  he  ever 
doubted  their  ability  to  instruct  him  thus  far ;  his  moral  information  is 
imparted  to  him  progressively  from  his  own  observaUon — it  is  purely 
the  result  of  example — ^he  sees  that  his  officers  (with  whom  he  holds  no 
direct  communication),  are  equally  observant,  when  on  duty,  of  subor- 
dination to  their  superiors  in  rank,  as  he  is  compelled  to  be  to  those 
with  whom  he  is  in  daily  intercourse;  he  likewise  observes  that  the 
junior  officer,  however  high  his  station  in  society  may  be,  is  subser- 
vient to  the  command  of  his  senior.    Thus  a  peculiar  respect  for  him  is 
generated  in  the  mind  of  the  private ;  but  it  is  a  very  different  feeling 
which  directs  him  to  obey  the  orders  of  those  who  are  his  companions. 
The  one  is  the  result  of  habitual  necessity  to  perform  the  task  allotted 
him,  the  other  arises  from  an  appreciation  of  birth,  manners,  habits,  and 
deportment,  which  he  is  conscious  are  superior  to  his  own,  and  which  he 
is  satisfied  that  his  comrades  do  not  possess.     Here  is  the  plain 
and  incontrovertible  cause  why  a  soldier  advanced  from  the  ranks 
to  a  commission,  is  never  regarded  bv  the  privates  with  the  same  re- 
spect as  the  other  officers ;  nor  does  he  receive  that  cordiality  of  un* 
restrained  communication  from  his  newly-acquired  companions — ^he  feels 
it  himself,  from  the  moment  he  joins  the  regiment,  both  with  respect  to 
the  men  placed  under  his  command,  and  his  equals  in  grade.     Long  ac- 
quired habits  inwardly  tell  him  of  his  unnatural  position,  and  many  men 
who  have  been  thus  elevated  above  the  sphere  in  which  thev  have  passed 
years  of  happiness  and  content,  have  silenUv  yearned  for  tne  enjoyment 
of  byegone  days*     Of  course  there  have  TOen,  are,  and  will  be  excep- 
tions; some  have,  from  bravery  or  influence,  arrived  at  the  highest 
ranks  in  the  service,  and  time  has  obliterated  the  distinction — at  least 
amongst  the  officers ;  but  if  ever  known  to  the  men  the  same  feeling 
pervades  them,  and  one  time  or  other  is  certain  to  elicit  an  allusion  to 
the  orig^in  of  their  commander. 

Exactly  the  same  thing  exists  in  the  navy ;  but  advancement  from 
the  forecastle  to  the  quarter-deck  was  at  all  times  a  rare  occurrence,  and 
since  the  peace,  may  be  looked  upon  as  approximating  to  an  impossibi- 
lity. Still  the  foremost-man  in  the  British  navy  has  always  a  goal  in 
view  to  stimulate  to  good  conduct,  and  to  satisfy  his  ambition,  the  arri- 
val at  which  he  knows  is  within  his  power,  and  the  accomplishment  of 
it  unaccompanied  by  an  entire  change  of  habits  or  associations. 

As  those  acquainted  with  the  service  know,  the  appointments  of  the 


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OF  THE  ARCHDUKE  CHARLES.  401 

'<  warrant-officers  *' — the  gunner,  boatswain,  and  carpenter — are  the 
rewards  of  bravery,  skilly  or  good  behaviour,  incidental  to  their  re- 
spective stations  in  the  ship.  When  such  an  appointment  is  once 
obtained^  it  places  them  in  situations  removed  from  the  actual  drudgery 
of  physical  duties,  g^ves  them  an  established  and  permanent  com- 
mand to  a  certain  extent,  a  degree  of  responsibility  which  flatters 
«nd  satisfies  their  feelings,  amenable  only  to  the  same  tribunals  as 
the  commissioned  officers,  an  increase  of  pay  adequate  to  their  wants, 
without  entirely  restricting  them  from  customs  and  habits  which  have 
long  been  congenial  to  their  avocations.  The  foremast-man,  although 
he  regards  the  warrant-officer  as  his  superior,  cheerfully  obeys  his 
orders,  without  a  particle  of  envy  or  contempt  at  his  elevation  above 
him,  because  he  knows  that  the  attainment  of  the  same  rank  is  within 
his  own  grasp,  and  freely  open  to  him,  in  the  course  of  time  or  events. 
Here  there  is  no  room  for  reflection  that  the  officer  is  raised  to  a  station 
to  which,  from  birth  and  education,  he  is  not  fitted. 

It  were  presumption,  perhaps,  in  any  one,  and  especially  in  a  naval 
man,  to  offer  a  suggestion  for  an  improvement  in  our  military  code^ 
whilst  the  Britidh  army  is  under  the  guidance  of  so  distinguished  an  in- 
dividual as  now  directs  its  organisation ;  but  adopting  the  simple  and 
trite  moral  drawn  from  the  fable  of  the  lion  and  the  mouse,  the  writer 
of  these  remarks  presumes  to  offer  an  opinion  the  consideration  of  which 
he  leaves  to  abler  hands. 

Could  there  not  be  established  in  the  army  a  grade  similar  to  that  of 
the  warrant-officer  in  the  navy  ?  For  example,  the  sergeant-major  and 
two  or  more  of  the  colour'sergeants  in  each  regiment  deriving  their  ap- 
pointment direct  from  the  Horse-Guards,  with  a  rank  intermediate  of 
the  commissioned  and  non-commissioned  officer,  placed  beyond  the 
caprice  of  regimental  authority,  receiving  the  same  external  mark  of 
respect  from  the  privates  as  if  holding  a  commission  from  the  sovereign, 
yet  without  exciting  the  envy  of  promotion  or  contempt  of  origin,  to 
which  allusion  has  before  been  made.  It  would  open  a  certain  field  of  emu- 
lation to  the  soldier,  and  probably  be  attended  with  results  as  beneficial 
and  pleasing  to  the  private,  who,  from  want  and  privation,  is  too  fre- 
quently compelled  to  enlist,  as  to  the  educated  gentleman,  who  volunta- 
rily enters  into  the  service  of  his  country.  In  these  appointments,  the 
distinction  of  class,  so  obviously  preserved,  would  cease  to  exist. 

The  foregoing  observations  are  greatly  strengthened,  and  their  apti- 
tude is  exemplified,  perhaps  confirmed,  by  the  conduct  of  the  soldiers  so 
miserably  left  upon  the  rock,  in  the  narrative  of  this  shipwreck. 

Had  Lieutenant  Stewart  been  an  officer  promoted  from  the  ranks, 
it  may  be  relied  on  that  no  such  change  in  the  behaviour  of  the 
men  would  have  taken  place ;  they  would  have  treated  hit  proposition 
**  to  remain  by  them,"  with  disdain ;  they  would  not  have  listened  to 
him  for  an  instant ;  each  man  would  naturally  have  said  within  himself 
who  and  what  is  he  ?  he  is  no  better  than  ourselves :  what  can  he  do 
for  us  ?  But  when  they  found  that  there  was  one  who,  by  birth  and 
station,  they  knew  to  be  superior  to  themselves,  had  offered  to  share 
their  destiny,  a  sudden  feeling  of  confidence  and  respect  took  pos- 
session of  their  minds,  all  violence  instantly  ceased  as  by  magic. 
Hence  it  is  obvious  that,  however  invidious  it  may  appear  to  be,  the 
officering  the  British  army  from  the  better  ranks  of  society  engenders 
confidence,  even  as  in  this  the  most  desperate  of  situations,  and  leads  to 


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402  NARRATIVE   OF   THE   WRECK 

results  which,  if  otherwise,  niigfat  perhaps  he  detrimental  to  its  most 
vital  interests. 

To  resume  the  narrative  of  this  terrible  shipwreck  :  soon  after  she 
went  down,  the  confined  air  must  have  hurst  her  decks,  for  the  sea 
became  covered  with  the  contents  of  her  hold,  consisting  of  the  officers' 
and  soldiers'  baggage,  casks  of  provisions,  &c;  and  several  of  the  bo- 
dies of  those  who  had  met  an  untimely  death  now  floated  to  the  surface 
— a  sad  spectacle  to  those  on  the  rock,  as  the  mountainous  waves  swept 
them  towards  the  coast.  The  water  had  now  encroached  so  perceptibly 
on  the  rock,  that  the  soldiers  were  compelled  gradually  to  keep  moving 
dose  together,  until  at  length  the  space  left  was  barely  sufficient  to  per- 
mit them  to  form  into  one  solid  mass. 

Lieut.  Stewart,  with  a  view  of  ascertaining  the  rapidity  of  the  rise  of 
the  tide,  directed  a  sergeant  to  place  two  stones  on  a  projecting  part  of 
the  rook,  the  surface  of  which  the  water  had  just  reached.  After 
waiting  with  their  backs  turned  to  the  spot  (dreading  to  behold  the  too 
convincing  proof)  but  a  short  time,  they  found  on  examination  the  fear- 
ful truth, — that  the  stones  were  no  longer  to  be  seen.  He  again  had 
another  one  placed,  conceiving  that  perhaps  the  former  ones  had  been 
washed  away ;  and  after  again  turning  their  eves  from  the  place,  as  did 
all  the  men,  with  the  conviction,  that  should  this  be  covered  by  the 
water,  they  had  nothing  to  expect  but  quickly-coming  death,  they  re- 
mained calmly  silent  in  that  position  for  some  time ;  when,  to  their  un- 
speakable joy,  on  again  turning  round,  they  heboid  not  only  the  single 
stone,  but  the  two  which  had  previously  been  laid  down.  Thus  assured 
that  the  tide  was  now  receding,  and  that  yet  there  was  a  chance  left 
them  of  being  saved,  should  their  situation  become  known  to  some 
vessel  passing  the  coast,  their  drooping  spirits  became  reanimated,  and 
each  man  strained  his  eyes,  to  be  the  first  to  catch  the  sight  of  the 
hoped-for  means  of  deliverance. 

By  this  time,  ftt>m  the  continued  breaking  of  the  sea  over  them,  and 
swallowing  the  salt  water,  which  many  had  done  in  gpetting  ft^nn  the 
ship,  they  were  seised  with  intense  thirst,  and  without  the  slightest 
chance  of  alleviation ;  and  were  this  a  work  of  fiction,  what  is  now 
related  might  be  set  down  as  an  incident  to  heighten  the  interest  of 
the  moment.  But  here  truly  occurred  one  of  those  miraculous  inter- 
positions of  Divine  Providence  which  must  convince  the  most  scep- 
tical of  the  goodness  and  power  of  the  Almighty  Creator  of  the  universe. 
Amongst  the  great  number  of  articles  which  were  at  every  instant  rising 
to  the  surface  from  the  wreck  and  floating  past  them,  one  of  the  Serjeants 
observed  a  cask,  which,  contrary  to  all  other  things,  was  apparently  being 
fast  driven  to  the  rock.  He  communicated  the  circumstance  to  Lieut. 
Stewart,  and  at  the  same  time  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  he  believed  it 
to  be  a  cask  of  rum,  whidi  must  have  broken  ftt>m  the  spirit- store. 
On  learning  this,  Lieut  Stewart,  with  a  judgment  worthy  of  him,  well 
knowing  what  the  consequences  would  be,  privately  ordered  the  sergeant 
to  provide  himself  with  the  largest  stone  he  could  find,  and  instantly 
that  the  cask  came  within  his  reach,  to  stave  in  the  head  of  it  Thn 
the  sergeant  was  soon  in  readiness  to  do ;  but  wonderftilly  singular 
as  it  may  appear,  the  cask,  as  it  neared  the  rock,  was  lifted  by  one 
enormous  wave,  and  carried  into  the  very  centre  of  the  body  of  men, 
so  much  so,  that  it  knocked  several  of  them  aside,  and  the  receding 
water  left  it  firmly  placed  among  them.     It  is  useless  to  attempt  a  de- 


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OF   THE  ARCHDUKE  CHARLES.  403 

scripUoo  of  the  men*8  feelings  under  such  drcamstances*  It  is  suffi- 
cient to  assert  that  it  proved  to  be  a  hogshead  full  of  fresh  water  1  To 
open  it,  and  each  man  to  partake  of  its  contents  by  the  use  of  his  cap, 
occupied  but  a  short  space  of  time.  Their  parched  throats  were  reliev- 
ed,  and  their  minds,  f^om  the  now  certainty  of  the  tide's  receding^  ren- 
dered comparatiyely  happy ;  so  much  so,  that  it  was  proposed  to  endea- 
vour to  obtain  some  sleep,  and  their  first  care  was  to  attend  to  their 
fatigued  and  wounded  officer. 

With  theur  hands  they  soon  cleared  a  space  of  the  sea- weed  sufficient 
to  permit  him  to  lie  down  on  the  bare  rock,  and  a  man  lay  down  on  each 
side  of  him  to  impart  warmth ;  others  laid  themselves  across  their  com- 
rades to  cover  him,  and  thus  formed  what  might  not  inaptly  be  termed 
a  living  pyramid.  The  majority  of  tUs  soldiers  with  their  officer  were 
soon  in  as  sound  a  sleep  as  if  they  had  been  in  the  most  comfortable 
quarters ;  care  having  been  taken  that  a  few  should  alternately  watch 
for  any  vessel  that  might  come  near  them. 

It  may  here  be  mentioned  that  the  one  of  the  Jeddore  Rocks,  on  which 
these  two  hundred  men  were  now  quietly  reposing,  is,  when  the  wind 
blows  ^m  any  other  quarter  than  that  which  then  prevailed,  covered  to 
the  depth  of  fifteen  feet  of  water,  and  thence  called  the  **  sunken  rock." 
This  drcumstance  was  doubtless  well  known  to  the  king's  pilot,  and  had 
been  communicated  by  him  to  Colonel  Darling,  which  accounts  for  his 
anxiety  to  leave  his  men  in  the  reckless  manner  in  which  he  did 

The  sea  still  continued  to  throw  up  articles  from  the  wreck ;  but  the 
<Hily  thing  which  was  washed  on  the  rock,  save  the  butt  of  water,  was  a 
speaking-trumpet,  which  ultimately  proved  of  infinite  service.  The  day 
was  passing  fiut  away,  the  fog  still  continued  dense  in  the  extreme,  the 
rain  pouring  its  torrents  on  these  miserable  half-clad  men,  while  a 
cutting  north-easter,  although  it  kept  the  sea  from  rising  on  them, 
increiued  the  severity  of  the  cold.  It  may  be  said,  in  truth,  that 
so  hopeless  appeared  their  chance  of  rescue,  at  Uie  approach  of 
night,. that  fortitude  gave  way  to  despair,  and  each  man  looked  upon 
death  as  a  happy  termination  to  his  now  terrible  state  of  existence. 

An  incident  now  occurred,  trifling  in  itself,  but  sufficiently  indicative  of 
what  had  at  some  previous  period  been  the  fate  of  one  or  more  wretched 
beings  on  the  very  spot  where  they  were.  One  of  the  sergeants  ob- 
served, wedged  in  a  cleft  of  the  rock,  a  piece  of  cloth,  whic^  on  draw- 
ing out,  had  attached  to  it  a  button  of  the  69th  regiment  of  foot.  It 
told  a  fearful  tale.  On  his  showing  it  to  Lieut.  Stewart,  he,  with  a  just 
discrimination  and  foresight,  strictly  forbade  the  sergeant  to  make  the 
circumstance  knovm  to  the  men,  rightly  judging  that  it  would  only  ag- 
gravate the  horrors  of  their  situation,  and  might  probably  reduce  them 
to  such  a  deptb  of  despair  as  to  deprive  them  of  all  reasoning  action; 
the  consequences  of  which  might  have  led  to  acts  too  horribk  to  con- 
template. 

How  few  men,  with  such  a  fearful  warning  before  them,  would  have 
preserved  their  self-possession  1  It  was  an  exercbe  of  the  most  con- 
summate prudence ;  and  a  foreboding  so  awful  was  sufficient  to  shake 
the  strongest  nerve.  Alasl  it  was  in  reality  what  it  seemed  to  be. 
Twenty  years  b^ore,  a  dreadful  shipwreck  had  happened  on  this  very 
rock,  where  perished  a  large  portion  of  the  69th  regiment, — ^theonly 
sad  memento  of  which  was  this  insignificant  button. 

The  darkness  of  night  was  already  shadowing  the  horison,  sleep  had 


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404  NARRATIVE  OF  THE  WRECK 

long  forsaken  the  most  wearied  of  the  soldiers.  Many  had  been  the 
delusiye  visions  to  those  watching,  and  their  frequent  cries  of  '<  a  ship  I 
a  ship  r*  only  proved  the  intensity  of  their  bewildered  imaginations. 
These  were  but  the  e£fect  of  denser  portions  of  vapoury  matter  driven 
past  them  by  the  howling  blast.  At  length  they  were  again  overwhelmed 
by  the  total  darkness  of  the  heavens,  and  again  reduced  to  an  utter 
hopelessness  of  relief.  Each  man  appeared  to  hold  but  little  communi- 
cation with  the  one  next  him ;  they  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  silent 
prayer.  All  was  silence,  save  the  roaring  of  the  winds  and  the  surging 
of  the  waves  on  the  rock  ; — and  prayer  alone  did  in  truth  occupy  the 
minds  of  this  mass  of  human  suffering. 

The  returning  tide  now  threatened  them  again,  with  increasing  force, 
the  wind  having  partially  '^  chopped  round  "  to  westward ;  and  they  at 
length  became  so  closely  wedged  together,  to  avoid  the  rapidly  approach- 
ing waters,  as  to  render  respiration  difficult  to  those  in  the  centre. 

Whilst  thus  awaiting  their  fate  with  a  calmness  of  resignation  un- 
equalled, suddenly  a  light  red  as  blood  (the  effect  of  fog),  appeared  to 
their  strained  eye-balls,  and  instantly  afterwards  a  ship  loomed  through 
the  dense  atmosphere.  A  shout  of  joy,  such  as  perhaps  never  before 
escaped  the  united  voices  of  two  hundred  human  beings,  soon  indicated 
to  those  on  board  the  vessel  ^which  had^  in  foot,  been  sent  with  another 
in  search  of  them,  but  with  faint  hopes  of  suooess),  that  the  rock  was 
still  uncovered  by  the  water^  and  that  its  wretched  occupants  still  sur- 
vived. 

It  was  subsequently  ascertained,  that  after  the  jolly  boat  had  land^ 
the  officers  and  crew  on  the  rock  where  the  women  were,  she  was  seat 
in  search  of  some  of  the  fishing  or  coasting  vessels  that  might  be  pass- 
ing. She  was  fortunately  successful,  by  foiling  in  with  three,  one  of 
which  had  taken  off  the  officers,  women,  and  other  persons,  and  the  two 
others  stood  out  to  ascertain  the  fate  of  the  soldiers,  but  with  almost  a 
positive  certainty  of  the  inutility  of  doing  so,  the  opinion  of  all  being 
that  death  had  long  previously  put  an  end  to  their  sufferings.  The 
Omnipotent  Power  who  ruleth  the  waters  ordained  it  otherwise.  The 
vessels  had  each  hoisted  lights  at  their  mast-heads,  and  it  was  one  of 
these  which  first  attracted  the  attention  of  the  soldiers.  It  was  as  much 
to  the  surprise  of  the  crews  of  the  vessels  to  hear  the  cry  from  the  men 
as  it  was  delight  to  those  from  whence  it  came. 

The  vessels  now  cautiously  neared  the  rock,  and  no  time  was  lost  in 
dispatching  a  boat,  which  they  had  brought  with  them,  to  the  rescue  of 
these  wretchedly-situated  creatures.  On  the  boat  being  perceived, 
Lieutenant  Stewart,  by  the  aid  of  the  speaking-trumpet  washed  from  the 
wreck,  was  enabled  to  hail  her,  and,  as  a  precautionary  measure,  in- 
quired what  number  of  men  she  could  carry  at  one  time.  They  replied, 
**  Eleven,**  and  added,  ''  that  they  must  watch  the  swell  of  the  sea,  and 
be  in  readiness  to  get  into  the  boat  the  instant  she  rose  with  it." 

This  step  was  in  exact  keeping  with  the  excellent  judgment  which  this 
intrepid  officer  had  displayed  from  the  moment  he  quitted  the  ill- 
fated  ship.  The  very  last  order  he  gave  on  the  rock  to  these  now  eager 
and  excited  men  was  received  by  them  with  a  respectful  attention,  which 
clearly  demonstrated  how  highly  they  estimated  his  conduct.  On  hb 
hearing  the  reply  from  the  boat,  he  immediately  directed  the  men  **  to 
form "  as  well  as  the  nature  of  the  place  they  were  on  would  admit ; 
which  they  did,  as  orderly,  and  with  as  much  subordination  as  if  on  pa- 


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OP   THE   ARCHDUKE  CHARLES.  405 

rade.  He  then  quietly  told  tbem  off  in  elevens,  informed  them  of  the 
manner  they  were  to  step  into  the  boat,  cautioned  them  against  any  dis- 
play of  impetuosity,  and  warned  them  of  the  danger  attending  a  ^*  rush." 
They  implicitly  obeyed  his  injunctions.  The  first  eleven  stepped  into 
the  boat  as  one  man,  catching  her  as  she  rose  to  the  wave,  and  were 
safely  taken  to  the  vessel  The  others  minutely  follcfwed  their  com* 
rade*8  example,  and  in  a  short  time  the  whole  were  embarked,  in  equal 
divisions,  on  board  the  two  vessels, — a  truly  wonderful  proof  of  the  mer- 
ciful goodness  of  the  all-seeing  eye  of  the  divine  Disposer  of  Events ; 
and  it  mav  be  added,  that,  under  His  especial  will,  the  bravery  of  con* 
duct,  coolness  of  judgment,  and  discriminating  powers  of  Lieutenant 
Stewart,  were  the  means  of  preserving  to  his  country  the  lives  of  two 
hundred  and  eight  of  its  defenders. 
Although  it  might  now  be  said,  that 

<(  The  perils  and  the  dangers  of  the  voyage  are  past,** 

it  is  hoped  that  it  will  not  be  the  less  interesting  to  the  reader  to  be  in- 
formed of  events  not  only  relative  to  the  wreck  of  the  '^  Archduke 
Charles,"  but  to  learn  in  what  manner  the  brave  officer,  whose  actions 
have  formed  so  prominent  a  feature  throughout  the  preceding  pages, 
was  rewarded. 

Lieutenant  Stewart  and  his  men  now  began  to  experience  extreme 
hunger,  as  well  as  thirst ;  but  the  coast  on  which  they  were  appeared  to 
be  nearly  as  desolate,  and,  with  respect  to  provisions,  as  inhospitable  as 
the  barren  rock  which  they  had  Idt.  However,  after  some  time  occu- 
pied in  the  search,  they  discovered  a  pool  of  water,  and  also  a  "  fish- 
flake  "  (a  stage  on  which  it  is  laid  to  dry)  well  stored.  The  soldiers 
seixed  the  raw  fish,  and,  without  waiting  to  cook  it,  devoured  it  like  so 
many  ravenous  wolves*  It  should  be  stated  that  they  had  obtained  a 
light  from  the  vessels,  and  on  their  first  landing  had  lighted  a  fire 
which  they  continued  to  supply  with  the  logs  that  lay  near  the  hut 

Lieutenant  Stewart  now  seriously  felt  the  effects  of  the  wounds 
he  had  received  on  the  rock.  He  was  terribly  bruised  in  the  body, 
and  much  lacerated  about  the  feet  and  legs.  Surgical  assistance  waa 
not  to  be  obtained.  He  therefore  philosoplneilly  became  his  own 
doctor.  With  a  piece  of  iron  hoop  (picked  up  in  the  hut),  he  made  tome 
lint  from  a  portion  of  his  shirt,  and  with  the  rest  of  it  bound  up  his  legs. 

With  the  intention  of  waiting  until  daylight  before  he  pfoceeded 
with  his  men  to  Cold  Harbour,  which  he  understood  was  about  six  miles 
distant  from  the  place  where  they  were,  he  lay  down  befofis  the  fire  to 
take  some  rest,  which  by  this  time  he  fully  needed;  but,  great  was  his 
astonishment  to  be  aroused  from  his  slumbers  by  the  uproarious  noise  of 
the  soldiers  fighting  with  each  other  like  maniacs.  Whether  thb  was  in 
consequence  of  devouring  the  raw  fish,  or  other  cause,  he  could  not  dis- 
cover.    Ultimately  they,  as  well  as  their  officer,  went  to  sleep. 

In  the  morning  they  began  their  march  to  Cold  Harbour,  which  they 
reached  about  6  Aai .,  and  were  immediately  supplied  with  requisite  pro- 
visions. Colonel  Darling,  the  officers  and  females,  had  already  been 
taken  there  the  previous  night  by  the  vessel  in  which  they  had  left  the 
rock.  Two  schooners  were  here  engaged  to  carry  them  to  Halifax,  whence 
they  were  distant  sixty  miles ;  and  the  next  day  they  arrived  off  that  port. 

On  entering  the  harbour  by  the  eastern  passage,  they  were  hioled, 
as  is   usual,    from   the  fort   on   George's    Island,    and    were  asked 

VOL.  XXIII.  6  o 


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406  NABRATIVB  OF  THE  WRECK 

what  troops  ihey  werot  and  from  whence  brought.  Greatly  to  the 
ai tonishment  of  those  at  the  battery,  they  learned  that  it  was  the  left 
wing  of  the  Nova  Scotia  regiment.  As  the  report  had  already  reached 
HaUfax  that  not  the  slightest  hope  remained  of  a  single  man^  woman,  or 
ehild  being  alive,  the  news  was  instantly  telegraphed  to  the  town,  and,  as 
might  be  expected,  it  became  a  scene  of  intense  excitement  A  gmt 
number  of  the  soldiers  had  relatives  residing  there;  and  the  pe<^le 
flocked  in  crowds  to  learn  the  particulars  of  their  escape. 

Many  of  the  officers  and  men  of  the  right  wing,  which  had  arrived 
some  weeks  before,  together  with  nearly  the  whole  of  the  garrison,  con- 
sisting of  five  regiments,  under  Major-General  Gosling,  hastened  to  see 
them  disembark,  and  the  gallant  behaviour  of  Lieutenant  Stewart  was  the 
general  theme  of  admiration.  He  was  confined  by  illness  about  nx 
weeks ;  but,  a  robust  constitution,  and  the  consciousness  of  an  honourable 
mind,  restored  him  to  health.  As  a  matter  of  course,  he  was  allowed 
his  compensation  (about  80Z.)  for  the  loss  of  his  property  in  the  wreck, 
which  was,  m  reality,  of  the  value  of  tOO^  Among  this  was  30^, 
**  subsistence  money"  for  his  company.  This,  by  the  regulation  of  the 
service,  he  was,  of  course,  obliged  to  make  good ;  so  that,  pecuniarily,  he 
was  a  considerable  loser.  Siii^lar  as  it  may  appear,  but  not  the  less 
true,  it  was  remarked  by  many,  military  as  well  as  civilians,  that  during' 
the  time  he  was  confined  by  illness,  solely  arising  from  his  distinguished 
conduct,  the  colonel  and  officers  who  had  escaped  the  wreck,  abstained 
from  publicly  alluding  to  the  circumstance ;  nor  did  any  one  of  them 
make  the  slightest  personal  inquiry  respecting  his  health.  It  may  very 
naturally  be  asked,  what  could  have  been  the  cause  ? 

**  There  *8  nothing  half  so  base  in  life 
As  man's  ingratitude  I" 

The  only  assignable  reason  for  such  an  utter  absence  of  oourteoua 
feeling,  (setting  aside  gratitude)  arose  doubtless  from  self-reproach,  an 
inward  conviction  of  their  own  pusillanimity ;  they  were  afraid  to  face  a 
brother  officer  whose  conduct  in  comparison  with  their  own,  had  placed 
him  so  immeasurably  above  them.  They  must  have  been  fully  sensible  in 
what  light  they  would  henceforth  be  regarded  by  their  own  men,  whom 
they  had  so  basely  deserted,  and  consequently  the  colonel  as  well  as  officers 
dreaded  a  recurrence  to  anything  connected  with  so  disgraceful  an  event. 

The  following  anecdote  was  very  current  during  the  late  war.  One 
of  his  majesty's  frigates  had  only  the  day  before  joined  the  fleet  off 
Toidon,  then  under  Admiral  Sir  £.  Pellew,  (afterwards  Lord  Exmouth) 
when  a  general  signal  was  made  to  ''  reef  topsails."  Captain  ■ 
being  rai^  a  *<  smart"  officer  himself,  was  anxious  to  shew  that  his 
ship's  company  were  equally  so.  ''  Hands  up,  reef  topsails,"  was  no 
sooner  ''piped"  than  it  was  half  accomplished;  the  men  were  as  am- 
bitious to  '^show  off"  under  the  eyes  of  the  commander-uiw^ef  as 
was  their  gallant  officer ;  but  unfortunately  the  captain  of  the  main-top, 
in  his  eagerness  to  haul  out  the  **  weather  earing,"  fell  off  the  yard-ann. 
A  midshipman  who  observed  it,  instantly  jumped  overboard  from  the 
gangway  and  saved  hb  life.  A  boat  was  lowered  and  both  soon  picked 
up.    Captain  ■  being  somewhat  nettled  at  the  delay  this  accident 

occasioned,  and  not  always  possessing  that  happy  equilibrium  of  temper, 
so  generally  admired,  watched  the  lK>at's  coming  alongside  with  evident 
signs  of  impatience.    When  the  midshipman  hi^  come  up  the  side,  and 


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OF    THE    ARCHDUKE  CHARLES.  407 

no  doubt  innocently  thinking  that  he  had  performed  a  very  praiseworthy 
action,  he  was  thus  addressed  by  his  captain.  '*  By  G — d^  sir,  I  've  a 
gpreat  mind  to  try  you  by  a  court-martial,  for  leaving  his  majesty's  ship 
without  permission  !** 

The  above  story  has  a  remarkable  bearing  upon  what  follows.  There 
was  a  report  in  the  military  circles  at  Halifax,  and  believed  to  be  true, 
tbat  Colonel  Darling  had  expressed  an  intention  of  bringing  Lieutenant 
Stewart  to  a  court-martial.  The  reader  may  reasonably  inquire  for 
what?  It  was  thus  stated;  for  a  breach  of  military  discipline, — for 
leaving  the  wreck  without  orders  lit  Whether  it  was  ever  seriously 
contemplated  or  not,  is  of  little  importance,  the  result  of  such  an  absurd 
step  was  too  obvious. 

It  is  proper  here  to  state,  that  some  time  previous  to  the  regiment's  ar« 
riving  at  Quebec,  a  captaincy  in  the  regiment  had  become  vacant,  and 
Sir  Gordon  Drummond,  the  G^vemor-greneral  of  Canada,  had  recom- 
mended Lieutenant  Stewart,  not  only  by  reason  of  his  being  the  senior 
lieutenant,  but  for  his  conduct  on  the  lakes  and  other  services,  to  fill 
the  vacancy.  As  hostilities  with  the  United  States  had  ceased,  and 
several  regiments  were  ordered  to  be  disbanded,  on  his  arriving  at  Hali- 
fax, he  learned  that  his  promotion  had  not  been  confirmed  by  the  home 
authorities.  Notwithstanding  this,  there  can  be  no  hesitation  in  be- 
lieving that  had  his  brave  conduct  at  and  after  the  wreck  been  duly  re- 
presented, (as  it  most  unquestionably  should  have  been)  to  his  Royal 
Highness  the  Duke  of  York,  then  commander-in-chief,  and  ever  es- 
teraed  as  the  '*  soldier's  friend,"  Lieutenant  StewUrt  would  now  have 
been  an  officer  of  high  standing  in  Her  Majesty's  service ;  as  it  was, 
the  regiment  was  (fisbanded  at  Halifiix,  the  majority  of  the  soldiers  be- 
came pensioners  and  settlers  in  the  colony,  upon  lands  granted  by  the 
government;  Colonel  Darling  got  his  step  as  major-general,  with  the 
governorship  of  the  Island  of  Tobago,  and  Lieutenant  Stewart — re- 
mained Lieutenant  Stewart  1 1 

Possessing  a  mind  sensitive  to  the  injustice  awarded  him,  he  may  be 
said  to  have  exiled  himself  for  a  period  of  six  or  seven  years  afterwards. 
At  length,  by  the  advice  of  his  friends, 

**>  So  many  bold  captains  (had)  walked  over  his  head/* 

he  determined  personally  to  make  an  effort  to  obtain  that  rank  to  which 
he  was  so  justly  entitled.  His  royal  highness  was,  it  is  well  known, 
urbane  in  the  highest  sense  to  all  who  had  an  audience  of  him.  He 
was  astonished  that  the  circumstances  had  never  been  brought  under  his 
notice;  but,  with  the  numerous  applications  from  the  Peninsula  and 
other  heroes  of  the  day,  his  royal  highness's  hands  were  tolerably  full  of 
business,  and  whatever  might  have  been  his  intentions,  it  must  be  pre- 
sumed that  Lieutenant  Stewart's  claims  merged  into  the  general  mass 
and  were  forgotten. 

It  was  not  until  nine  years  afterwards,  and  sixteen  from  the  tim^  of 
the  wreck  of  the  '*  Archduke  Charles,"  that  Lieutenant  Stewart  in  due 
course  obtained  his  promotion  as  a  <<  captain  unattached  I" 


o  o2 

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THE  EVENTFUL  DAYS  OF  FEBRUARY  1848  IN  PARIS. 

BT  AN  AHBRIOAN   LADY. 

The  narrative  I  am  about  to  present  to  the  reader  has  at  least  one 
advantage — its  veracity  may  be  depended  upon.  Ten  thousand  sto- 
ries have  gone  the  round  of  the  newspapers,  which  I  believe  to  be 
true,  because  they  tally  in  spirit  wltli  those  I  know  to  be  fact ;  but 
such  may  be  read  elsewhere*  I  am  the  reporting  medium  of  only 
such  as  came  to  me  on  unimpeachable  evidence^ 

I  had  not  been  very  long  in  Paris  before  there  occurred  that  attack 
on  M.  Guizot  and  his  cabinet  about  the  '*  Presse/'  and  leases  of  thea- 
tres, and  sundry  other  matters  of  bribery  and  corruption^  The  mi- 
nister came  out  triumphant,  not  by  defending  his  own  camp,  but  by 
carrying  the  attack  into  that  of  the  enemy.  M.  Emile  de  Girardin 
made  a  fool  of  himself, — worse  one  can  hardly  say  of  him,  for  he  was 
already  one  of  those  men  to  whom  belongs  ''no  character  at  all.** 
On  the  heels  of  this  came  the  **  Teste**  affair.  Our  next  excite- 
ment was  the  Beauvallon  and  D'Equevilley  business,  which  would 
have  attracted  a  great  deal  more  notice  had  the  Duke  de  Praslin 
spared  his  wife  a  little  while. 

Next  the  reform  banquets  were  meant  to  be  the  expression  of  pub- 
lic opinion.  How  else  was  public  opinion  to  reach  the  King  and  his 
colleagues  entrenched  in  their  own  coterie  ?  And  vast  as  the  minis- 
terial majority  was  in  the  Chamber,  the  wonder  to  me  is  that  it  was 
not  greater ;  for  of  the  35,000,000  of  France  there  were  but  240,000 
electors ;  and  every  Englishman  who  has  landed  at  any  French  sea- 
port, and  enquired  the  reason  why  every  third  man  wore  a  cocked- 
hat,  gold  lace,  and  a  sword  by  his  side,  knows  that  nearly  every  kind 
of  place  in  France  is  in  the  gi(t  of  the  ministry.*  In  England,  com- 
panies and  individuals  have  a  vast  amount  of  petty  patronage;  in 
France,  every  place,  from  that  of  a  guard  upon  a  railway  to  the  dig- 
nity of  a  judge,  is  disposed  of  by  government  favour. 

Seventy  of  these  banquets  had  passed  off  in  the  provinces,  presided 
over  generally  by  deputies,  and  attended  by  National  Guards  and  the 
middling  classes  of  the  people.  At  the  famous  one  at  Ma9on,  where 
M.  de  Lamartine  spoke  for  two  hours,  the  company  sat  eager  and  de- 
lighted in  their  tent,  under  umbrellas,  whilst  crowds  were  collected 
in  the  pouring  rain  outside,  content  to  wait  in  hopes  to  catch  but  the 
faintest  echo  of  his  words. 

Then  came  stormy  discussions  and  ministerial  difficulties  in  the 
Chamber,  and  the  announcement  of  the  reform  banquet  of  the 
twelfth  arrondissement.  For  some  days  the  spot  on  wnich  it  was 
to  be  held  was  undecided,  but  at  length  it  was  fixed  for  our  near 
neighbourhood.  Till  tlie  Monday  afternoon  I  suppose  everybody 
was  of  opinion  that  it  would  go  off  quietly,  that  the  subscribers 
would  assemble,  eat  nothing,  have  a  speech  from  the  president,  re- 
ceive a  summons  from  the  Pr^fet  of  Police  to  the  effect  tliat  their 
meeting  was  illegal,  and  that  the  aflfair  would  be  tried  in  the  law- 
courts,  where  resistance  would  be  made  to  the  suppression  of  the 
banquets  in  every  possible  way.     Nevertheless,  Paris  was  crammed 

*  A  late  compDtation  makes  the  places  in  the  direct  gift  of  the  ministry  68,000. 

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THE  EVENTFUL  DAYS  OF  FEBRUAltY   1848.  409 

with  troops ; .  the  passing  of  artillery  waggons  and  the  entry  bf  regK 
mentSy  startled  us  often  from  sleep  for  several  nights  previously ;  and 
the  little  barrack  opposite  our  window  was  as  full  of  soldiers  as  it 
could  hold. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  that  Monday ;  the  air  was  soft  and  genial, 
the  sky  bright,  and  the  Champs  Elys^s  were  very  gay.  We  remarked, 
as  we  walked  through  them,  that  the  Paris  population  seemed  to  make 
the  day  a  sort  of /^^ — that,  except  upon  the  festival  days  of  May  and 
of  July,  we  had  never  seen  so  many  workmen  there ;  and  that  wher^ 
asy  in  a  walk  of  half  a  mile,  we  had  often  counted  a  himdred  soldiers, 
there  was  not  on  that  day  one  uniform  abroad. 

Scarcely  any  one  was  aware  at  that  time  that  government  had  pro- 
hibited the  banquet,  and  we  went  to  bed  in  ignorance ;  disturbed^ 
however,  all  night  bv  the  unwonted  passing  of  carts  and  carriages. 
In  the  latter,  as  we  learnt  afterwards,  were  the  opposition  members, 
going  up  to  the  spot  where  the  banquet  was  to  have  been  held,  with 
counter  orders,  whilst  carts  were  engaged  in  removing  all  the  pre- 
parations that  had  been  made  previously,  and  in  carrying  every  loose 
paving  stone  in  Paris  out  of  the  way. 

^'Is  it  a  fine  morning  for  the  banquet?"  was  the  first  question 
asked   when  we  awoke.     <^  There  is   to  be  no  banquet,"*  was  the    ' 
answer.     '*  See  yonder,  the  proclamation  posted  up  on  the  door  of 
the  barrack  over  the  way." 

We  looked,  and  found  a  strange  change  had  taken  place  in  that 
establishment.  Its  doors  were  closed,  its  lower  wmdows  filled 
up  with  what  looked  to  us  a  little  like  a  defence  of  cotton  bags,  the 
sentry  was  off  duty — not  a  soldier's  head  was  to  be  seen,  though  we 
knew  that  the  place  was  swarming  with  them.  It  looked  sly  and 
mischievous  enough,  as  it  stood  there  so  unnaturally  still.  Our  day 
passed  quietly  till  about  eleven  o'clock,  when  some  tradespeople 
came  up  to  us.  One  reported  that  the  Place  de  la  Madeleine  was  full 
of  people,  most  of  them  well  dressed,  supporters  of  the  opposition, 
who  had  assembled  before  Odillon  Barrot's  house  to  ask  what  they 
should  do.  Few  national  guards  in  uniform  were  amongst  them. 
Everything  was  perfectly  quiet  and  orderly, — people  seemed  to  have 
gathered  Uiere  to  see,  and  were  waiting  to  know  what  was  expected 
of  them.  In  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  however,  which  was  equally 
crowded,  more  was  being  done.  A  party  of  municipal  guards,  sta- 
tioned on  the  bridge  before  the  Deputies,  were  disposed  to  deny  a 
passage  to  any  one  who  could  not  shew  the  medal  of  a  Deputy.  A 
considerable  party  of  working-men  and  boys,  without  apparently  any 
particular  object,  or  any  recognized  leaders,  broke  through  this  line 
of  guards,  crossed  the  bridge,  and  ascended  the  steps  of  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies.  An  American  gentleman  who  was  upon  the  spot  followed 
the  party.  They  demanded  an  entrance  into  the  Chamber,  which 
was  denied  them,  and  as  they  hesitated  whether  to  take  **  No  "  for 
an  answer,  two  or  three  men  (who  our  friend  declares  were  moth 
ckarda,  that  is  government  spies  set  to  gauge  the  disposition  of  the 
people),  began  breaking  some  of  the  windows.  Our  friend  remained 
amongst  the  officers  till  this  part  of  the  business  was  over,  when  he 
went  upon  the  bridge,  which  was  very  much  crowded.  A  party 
of  dragoons  came  up  and  began  to  clear  it,  but  good-humouredly 
and  gently, — and  the  people  were  retiring  as  fast  as  their  numbers 

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410  THE  EVENTFUL  DAYS  OP 

nifid^  it  possible,  when  a  party  of  the  Municipal  Guard  rode  up  be- 
hind,— passed  through  the  ranks  of  the  dragoons,  and  began  prancing 
their  horses  and  cutting  about  them  very  violently.  A  good  many 
persons  were  injured,  and  one  old  woman  was  trodden  down.  On  this 
the  people  were  greatly  exasperated,  and  stones  were  thrown,  but 
none  of  any  great  size,  at  the  guards.  The  soldiers  then  drew  out 
their  sabres,  and  began  charging  and  slashing  about  them  brutally. 
Thi#  was  the  beginning — the  first  moment  of  violence — the  first 
scene  of  the  first  act  of  the  New  Revolution.  In  our  quarter,  too^ 
things  were  getting  very  exciting,— especially  to  a  party  of  ladies 
left  by  themselves  to  conjecture  the  cause  and  meanmg  of  all  they 
saw  around. 

A  crowd  had  collected  at  the  comer  of  our  quiet  street; — mostly  of 
mere  curious  spectators.  A  good  many  English  ladies  too — ^whose  win- 
dows commanded  no  view  of  the  Champs  Elys^es  were  to  be  seen ; 
eonderges  in  white  aprons ;  gri»ette$  in  their  neat  caps ;  and  amongst 
them  apple-dealers,  and  vegetable-vendors,  offering  their  things  for  sale. 
All  were  talking, — gestici^ting, — pointing  downwards.  Soon  we  were 
able  to  observe  the  erection  of  a  barricade.  Cabs,  at  full  speed, 
were  driving  away  out  of  the  reach  of  danger.  Omnibus  horses 
came  up  the  street,  unencumbered  by  omnibuses.  And  a  wretched 
driver  of  a  remise  made  his  appearance  seated  astride  upon  his  horse, 
his  big  Benjamin  reposing  demurely  on  its  tail,  his  long  carriage 
whip  held  upright  in  his  hand.  A  tree  was  hewn  down  by  hatchets 
borrowed  firom  the  house  over  the  way.  An  omnibus,  a  few  barrels, 
a  dozen  yards  of  paving-stones  torn  up,  a  tree  or  two,  or  an  old  table 
formed  the  barricade.  Lamps  were  being  broken  all  up  the  Champs 
Elys^es.  A  party  o^ gamine  came  by,  and  the  respectables  of  the  crowd 
stood  aside  looking  at  them.  They  tore  up  our  benches,  tugged  at 
the  sentry-box.  Two  hundred  people  scampering  at  the  top  of  their 
speed  at  this  moment,  turned  down  our  street,  as  fifty  dragoons 
pharged  up  the  Champs  Elys^es.  I  never  saw  a  sight  like  it ; — such 
unanimity  of  quickness  I  But  now  they  stopped,  turned  round,  and 
came  back  again,  whilst  the  dragoons  rode  slowly  back,  breathing 
their  horses.  The  fugitives  were  not  angry,  for  nobody  had  been 
hurt;  but  frightened  enouffh.  Six  National  Guards  could  now  be 
seen  amongst  a  party  of  blouses ;  unarmed  it  is  true,  but  shouting, 
singing,  and  carrying  the  tri-coloured  flag.  They  advanced  up 
Chaillot  to  the  localitv  of  the  banquet 

Towards  evening  the  rappel  was  beaten  in  our  quarter.  At  night 
the  barricades  near  us  were  all  removed  by  the  military ;  the  streets 
were  very  quiet,  and  we  slept  in  peace ;  though  the  octroi  houses  and 
omnibus  stations  at  the  Barrier  de  FEtoile,  and  a  guard-house  on  the 
Rue  Matignon,  were  burnt  in  the  evening. 

Up  to  that  moment  it  had  been  a  mere  riot  of  gamins,  but  in  the 
night  the  secret  societies  met,  and  their  decision  turned  the  scale. 
We  were  awakened  in  the  morning  by  the  marching  in  of  troops ; 
a  regiment  of  infimtry  and  one  of  cavalry.  The  Wednesday  passed 
quietly  with  us.  The  streets,  however,  were  choked  with  soldiers, 
chiefly  cavalry.  In  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  there  must  have 
been  5000  of  them.  I  have  seen  a  great  many  people  who  were 
that  day  on  the  scene  of  action,  but  all  agree  that  the  fighting  was 
not  very  general,  and  comparatively  languished.    The  day  too  was 


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FEBBUART   1848  IN  PARIS.  411 

very  unfavourable,  being  a  real  April  daj  of  gusty  storms.  But  the 
National  Guards  evinced  their  sympathy  with  the  people  by  shouting 
by  whole  battalions  '' A  ba$  Guizot^"  and  ^  Five  la  Refirme:'  At 
half-past  ten,  the  King  expressed  to  M.  Guizot  his  satisfaction  at 
the  arrangements  made,  and  his  entire  confidence.  An  hour  or  two 
later,  on  entering  the  Chamber,  a  communication  was  put  into  the 
minister's  hand,  informing  him  that  he  was  dismissed  from  the  Royal 
counsels^  and  that  Count  M0I6  was  closeted  with  the  King.  Those 
who  have  been  admitted  into  M.  Guiiot's  confidence,  say  that  his 
resentment  at  this  treatment  was  dignified,  but  extreme. 

At  five  o'clock,  we  were  glad  to  get  out  for  a  walk.    The  Champs 
£lys6es  were  full  of  promenaders,  many  of  them  our  English  and 
American  friends,  come  out  to  see  the  d&)rU  of  the  preceding  day's 
proceedings.    The  Place  de  la  Concorde  was  still  full  of  troops,  most 
of  them  dragoons  with  their  tired,  mudstained  little  horses  drawn  up 
on  the  beautiful  asphalt  pavement.    Before  the  great  gates  of  the 
Tuileries  several  pieces  of  artillery  were  posted,  and  National  Guards 
Ibed  the  square  towards  the  Admiralty.     The  greater  part  of  the 
streets  leading  to  the  Boulevards  were   illuminated,   and   proces- 
sions everywhere  were  formed.     Amongst  other  cries  was  Vive  la 
Ugne^    showing   that  the  regulars  being  considered  friendly  were 
popular;  some  bands  it  is  said  presented  themselves  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  Tuileries,  with  shouts  of  Vive  le  roil    At  nine 
o'clock  many  of  our  friends  who  had  come  out  for  news  or  were 
returning  to  their  homes,  were  on  the  Boulevard  at  the  moment 
when  a  large  procession  of  this  kind  passed  by  the  Ministry  of  the 
Affiures  Etrang^res,  singing  patriotic  songs  and  preceded  by  boys 
carrjring  torches  and  lanterns.     Suddenly  two  separate  discharges 
of  musketry  took  place.     One  from  the  mfantry  of  the  14th  regi* 
ment  stationed  before  Guizot's  house,  the  other  from  the  cavalry. 
There  was  a  moment  of  death-like  silence,  and  then  the  fury  of  the 
crowd,  the  shouts,  the  yells,  the  screams  that  followed  no  tongue  can 
describe.    The  cause  of  this  fatal  JusiUade  is  still  unexplained.    The 
most  probable  account,  however,  is  that  the  horse  of  the  captain  of 
in&ntry  having  been  wounded  by  the  accidental  discharge  of  a  gun  be* 
longing  to  a  soldier,  his  owner,  struck  by  a  panic,  fimcied  it  an  attack^ 
and  gave  the  unhappy  order.    From  that  moment  all  was  lost    Gather^* 
ing  up  their  dead,  part  of  the  crowd  marched  alons  the  Boulevard  to 
the  office  of  the  National;  wavmg  their  torches,  and  calling  down  ven« 
geance  on  the  assassins  of  their  brethren.  Others  dispersed  themselves 
Uirough  the  neighbouring  streets,  shouting,  **  To  arms  I  to  arms  1  we  are 
betrayed  f  on  nous  assasaine*"   During  the  night  and  the  following  day 
38,000  barricades  were  thrown  up.     Some  of  them  in  the  neighbour-* 
hood  of  the  Bastile,  were  as  high  as  the  second  story.  Vincennes  was 
completely  cut  off  from  the  capital.    Everywhere,  n'om  an  early  hour 
on  Thursday  morning,  arms  were  demanded,  but  I  have  not  heard  of 
a  single  instance  in  which  families  were  put  to  unnecessary  terror.    I 
have  heard  several  beautiful  and  authentic  anecdotes  of  consideration 
for  the  sick  on  these  occasions;  one  especially  which  occurred  to  a 
lady  whose  name  I  could  furnish.     Her  little  child  was  dying,  and 
the  mother  was  kneeling  absorbed  in  prayer  beside  its  bed.    Her  ser-^ 
vants  had  dispersed,  and  she  was  too  much  occupied  with  her  mater- 
nal grief  to  heed  what  was  going  on  without,  when  suddenly  her  door 


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412  .  THE  EVENTFUL  DAYS  OF 

opened,  and  a  party  of  armed  men  en  blouse  entered  the  chamber. 
The  mother  raised  her  head,  and  hushed  them  with  her  hand^  for  the 
presence  of  the  king  of  terrors  had  absorbed  her  fears ;  but  what  was 
her  surprise  when  all  these  rude,  rough  men  knelt  down  beside  her, 
joined  their  prayers  with  hers  for  tlie  soul  that  was  departing,  and 
then  quitted  tlie  room  in  silence,  placing  a  guards  and  writing  up  over 
the  door,  <<  Respect  this  house,  for  death  is  here/'  At  half-past  nine, 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde  was  as  still  as  death. 

At  this  juncture,  in  front  of  Guizot*s  house,  ikve  thousand  troops 
suddenly  reversed  their  arms,  the  cavalry  rode  off,  whilst  the  line 
fraternized  with  the  people.  Truly  this  was  the  coup  de  grace  for  the 
Orleans  dynasty. 

At  half-past  ten,  Odillon  Barret  rode  along  the  Boulevard  to  assure 
the  people  he  was  now  their  Minister,  and  their  cause  was  gained. 
He  was  met  with  shouts  of  *'  Never  mind  him  !"  <^  We  have  no  time  to 
listen."  "Too  late  !"  "We  know  all  he  has  to  say  to  us."  "^  Vcewore! 
d  Voeuvre  /"  and  the  man  who  had  thought  himself  popular  and  great 
— the  leader  of  a  revolution — was  forced  to  return  whence  he  came, 
without  having  produced  any  impression.  About  the  same  time  in 
the  day,  the  Ecole  Militaire  was  taken;  and  the  military  prisoners 
were  released.  A  little  blouse  guarded  the  staircase  leading  to  the 
apartments  of  the  ladies  of  the  governor,  and  no  one  was  allowed  to 
intrude  on  them  or  frighten  them.  The  fight  of  the  Place  du  Palais 
Royal  was,  about  half-past  twelve,  yery  severe.  The  Municipal 
Guard  defended  the  Chateau  d*£au  against  the  National  Guards  and 
people,  and  the  effect  is  said  to  have  been  awful,  when  the  building 
being  set  light  to  they  continued  their  firing  out  of  the  midst  of  the 
flames.  The  post  was  carried ;  the  Carousel  fllied  with  people ;  and  the 
royal  family  were  just  sitting  down  to  a  dejeuner  d  la  fourcketUy  when 
a  party  of  people,  amongst  them,  Emile  Girardin,  made  their  way  to 
the  king,  imploring  him  to  abdicate  at  once,  and  spare  the  people ; 
for  although  artillery  might  defend  the  palace  a  few  hours,  nothing  now 
could  save  his  crown.  Without  a  word  Louis  Philippe  drew  pen  and 
paper  towards  him,  and  wrote  his  abdication.  Embracing  the  little 
Comte  de  Paris,  he  went  out,  saying  to  the  gentlemen  around  him, 
"  This  child  is  your  king."  First  beneath  the  PaviUon  de  VHorhge 
came  a  party  of  dragoons,  leading  their  horses  down  the  steps  and 
flying  from  the  Carousel.  Then  followed  the  royal  family,  slenderly 
accompanied.  The  people  entered  the  Tuileries  as  they  left  it  At 
the  Champs  Ely  sees,  by  side  of  the  obelisk,  the  royal  party  found  two 
broughams  in  waiting,  one  the  property  of  an  English  gentleman.  The 
king  and  queen  got  into  the  foremost,  in  which  were  several  children. 
Into  the  second  got  the  Duchesse  de  Nemours,  the  Princess  Clementine, 
and  an  attendant.  Some  of  the  crowd  cried  as  they  passed,  "Re- 
spect old  age!  Respect  misfortune!"  Ana  the  story  told  in  the 
newspapers  is  quite  true,  that  when  an  officer  cried  out  to  the  people, 
^'Do  not  hurt  tlie  king,"  a  man  en  blouse  stepped  forward  and 
replied,  '*  Do  you  take  us  for  assassins  ?  Let  him  get  away •"  It 
was  the  feeling  of  the  crowd ;  and  scarcely  an  insult,  even  in  word, 
was  offered  them.  The  coachmen  whipped  their  horses  furiously,  and 
the  royal  party  drove  away,  but  in  such  haste  and  confusion  that  the 
poor  little  Duchesse  de  Montpensier  was  left  upon  the  side  walk, 
alone,  and  weeping  bitterly.    A  Portuguese  gentleman  who  was  pasa* 


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FEBRUARY   1848  IN   PARIS.  413 

iDg  knew  her,  and  gave  her  his  arm  to  go  in  search  of  her  husband's 
aide-de-camp  General  Thierry.  Several  gentlemen  who  were  standing 
by  escorting  them,  they  went  back  into  the  garden,  where  they  fell  in 
with  a  member  of  the  Lafayette  Himily,  who  took  her  to  his  house. 
Meantime  the  Duchess  of  Orleans,  her  children,  and  the  Dukes  de 
Nemours  and  Montpensier  had  gone  to  the  Chamber,  departmg  in 
such  haste  that  no  orders  were  lefl  behind  with  the  faithful  Garde 
Municipale  to  save  themselves  and  retire.  Nothing  preserved  them 
but  the  courage  of  the  National  Guards,  who  threw  themselves  into 
their  arms  on  entering  the  Tuileries,  and  conducted  them  into  the 
interior  of  the  palace,  where  having  doffed  their  helmets  and  put  on 
over-coats,  they  escaped  out  of  the  windows.  During  the  first  half 
hour,  before  the  people  had  got  entire  possession,  a  good  deal  of 
money  and  many  vahiables  were  plundered  by  professional  thieves, 
who  made  their  way  at  once  to  strong  boxes  and  secretaries;  but 
after  that  time  it  was  dangerous  to  appropriate  anything  of  import- 
ance. 

'  What  a  scene  was  presented  near  the  old  palace  I  Out  of  all  the 
windows  of  the  palace  the  conquerors  were  throwing  livery  coats, 
fragments  of  state  furniture,  and  a  perfect  snow-storm  of  all  kinds  of 
papers.  The  beds  stood  yet  unmade,  and  all  the  apparatus  of  the 
toUeUe  was  in  disorder.  At  the  dressing-table  one  man  was  rubbing 
pomade  with  both  hands  into  his  hair,  another  was  drenching  himself 
with  perfume,  a  third  was  scrubbing  his  teeth  furiously  with  a  tooth- 
brush that  had  parted  royal  lips  but  an  hour  or  so  before.  In  another 
room  a  bUmse  was  seated  at  a  splendid  piano,  plapring  the  Marseillaise 
to  an  admiring  auditory,  whilst  near  by  a  party  ox  gamins  were  turning 
over  a  magnificent  scrap-book  with  considerable  care.  In  the  next 
room  four  blouses  had  taken  possession  of  the  piano,  and  were  all 
thumping  together,  delighted  with  the  noise.  In  another  room  a  party 
of  workmen  were  dancmg  a  quadrille!  whilst  a  well-dressed  gentleman 
played  for  them  on  a  piano.  At  every  chimney-piece,  and  before  all 
the  works  of  art,  stood  a  guard  to  protect  them,  generally  of  the  most 
tattered  and  powder-stained  description,  each  bearing  a  placard  *'  Mort 
aux  voleurs,^  on  the  point  of  his  bavonet ;  whilst  at  the  head  of  the 
grand  staircase  stood  others,  crymg  out  ^Entrez  donCf  messieursy 
entrezf  On  n'a  pas  des  billets  d*entr6e  tous  les jours;**  whilst  the  cry 
passed  through  the  crowd  was,  *^  Keep  moving,  keep  moving,  gentle- 
men. Look  as  much  as  you  like,  but  touch  nothing."  <<  Ne  sommes 
nous  pas  magnifiques  chez  nous,  monsieur  f"  said  a  little  gamin  to  one 
of  our  friends;  whilst  another  was  to  be  seen  parading  about  in  one 
of  the  poor  queen's  head-dresses.  She  always  wore  very  original 
ones,  with  a  bird-of-paradise  feather  surmounting  them,  something  in 
short  like  the  usual  picture-book  depictions  of  the  head-dress  of  a 
queen. 

For  the  first  half-hour  the  crowd  destroyed  nothing,  even  the  por- 
traits of  the  king  we  thought  would  be  respected  ;  but  at  length  the 
destruction  of  the  state  furniture  (it  was  sad  old  rubbish)  began. 
Three  men  were  seen  smoking  their  pipes  comfortably  in  the  great 
state  bed ;  some  ate  up  the  royal  breakfast,  and  a  good  many  smoked 
royal  cigars  which  were  freely  circulated.  A  distribution  also  took 
place  of  all  the  musketsin  the  armoury. 

Meantime  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  the  scene  was  terrible.    If 


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414  THE  BVENtTUL  DATS  OF 

the  president,  M.  Sauzet,  had  not  lost  his  head,  and  had  declared  the 
sitting  closed,  and  requested  the  deputies  to  disperse,  when  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  abdication  and  the  regency  was  received  with 
acclamations,  many  persons  think  he  might  have  saved  rojralty. 
But  as  soon  as  the  mob  got  possession  of  the  tribunes,  and  pointed 
their  guns  down  upon  the  deputies,  who  sheltered  themselves  as  best 
they  might,  behind  their  desks  and  benches,  the  opportunity  was  over. 
Odillon  Barrot,  who  had  come  down  to  the  house,  the  very  picture  of 
self-importance,  notwithstanding  his  lesson  on  the  Boulevard,  foimd 
his  hour  departed,  and  his  power  gone.  M.  de  Lamartine  was  the 
idol  of  the  mob  (though  he  was  very  nearly  being  shot  by  mistake 
when  speaking),  they  got  around  him,  embracing  his  knees,  his  hands, 
and  his  very  clothes.  Throughout  all  the  tumult  the  reporters  of  the 
Moniteur  sat  calmly  in  their  place,  noting  down  all  that  was  passing. 
A  butcher's  boy  is  said  at  one  time  to  have  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
throat  of  the  little  Comte  de  Paris.  The  Duchess  showed  great 
courage.  The  Duke  de  Nemours,  who  is  said  to  stand  fire  well,  was 
on  this  occasion,  as  white  as  death.  Some  say  he  swooned,  but  at 
any  rate  he  was  powerless,  when  some  of  the  d^uties  stripped  off  his 
uniform,  and  hastily  disguised  him.  The  crowd  had  already  torn  off 
his  epaulettes  and  orders. 

Whilst  a  volume  of  history  was  thus  being  accomplished,  our  little 
party  was  guessing  great  events  from  the  little  ones  that  were  pass* 
ing  around.  The  first  sign  of  the  people's  victory  which  met  our  eyes 
was  a  quantity  of  round  flat  loaves,  borne  on  the  bayonets  or  iron 
bars  or  pikes  of  the  men  that  passed  us.  Next  passed  successive 
groups  of  people,  clad  in  every  variety  of  costume,  and  armed  with 
every  weapon,  yet  all  marching  in  line,  with  a  kind  of  military  ord«*. 
Some  wrapped  in  the  white  cloaks  of  the  cavalry,  and  wearing  here 
and  there  the  bonnet  rou^e,  preceded  them,  occasionally  dancings 
and  singing  the  Marseillaise,  or,  oflener,  the  Chosur  des  Girondios, 
which  is  the  hymn  of  this  revolution,  as  the  Parbienne  was  of  *80 
and  the  Marseillaise  of  1792.  Cavalry  sabres  trailing  in  the  dust 
seemed  a  very  popular  weapon ;  almost  all  wore  a  scrap  of  some 
description  of  uniform,  a  helmet,  or  a  cross-belt  and  cartouche*' 
box,  besides  arms.  I  saw  two  generals'  plumed  hats  upon  the 
heads  of  gamins,  and  one  little  fellow  nearly  extinguished  under 
the  ample  cocked  hat  meant  for  some  old  admiral.  Suddenly,  a 
small  party  of  workmen  stopped  before  the  barrack,  which  had 
partially  unclosed.  They  consulted  together ;  then  one  of  them  went 
forward,  and  demanded,  I  fancy,  the  release  of  some  prisoners 
who  had  that  morning  been  taken  there;  but  when  he  came  out 
again,  several  of  the  soldiers  Joined  the  group.  Many  were  already 
in  the  street,  with  their  arms  reversed,  and  a  greater  number  wiUiout 
weapons.  Then  the  door  of  the  guard-house  was  thrown  open,  and 
all  the  soldiers  came  out  by  twos  and  threes,  laughing  like  boys  let 
out  of  school ;  and  all  the  people  passing  pressed  around  and  shook 
them  by  the  hands.    Then  at  last  came  out  the  officers. 

Umbrellas  were  alternating  with  muskets  and  naked  sabres ;  one  of 
the  latter  that  we  saw  had  the  fresh  stain  of  blood.  But  we  were  not 
afraid.  We  had  not  been  reasoning  ourselves  into  confidence,  but 
everything  we  saw  inspired  it.  Is  it  possible  that  this  armed  people 
had  the  wealth  of  this  great  city  in  their  hands,  and  yet  could  have 


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FEBRUARY  184t  IN  PABIS.  416 

been  io  orderly,  so  perfectly  quiet,  so  respectful  eveu,  and  so  calm  ? 
A  party  of  workmen  advanced  with  drums :  one  man,  not  having  a 
drum,  was  thumping  on  a  tin  kettle !  There  was  another  set  with 
loaves  of  bread  upon  their  bayonets,  some  with  their  muskets 
wreathed  with  flowers.  Among  the  crowd  we  saw  a  woman  girt 
with  a  sword. 

News  was  brought  us  in  the  evening  that  the  Tuileries,  Palais 
Royal,  and  Madeleine  were  on  fire ;  and  we  went  up  to  the  upper 
windows  to  witness  it.  But  not  being  blinded  by  our  fears,  like  our 
informant,  we  very  soon  made  out  that  the  conflagration  of  the  two 
palaces  was  but  a  bonfire  in  the  Carousel  (the  King's  statue,  state- 
carriages,  and  a  few  other  odd  things),  whilst  *'  the  Madeleine  on  fire" 
was  but  an  illumination.  Indeed,  all  Paris  was  radiant  for  three 
nights  in  tar  and  tallow :  that  is,  the  houses  of  the  rich  were  so  illu« 
minated ;  the  poor  made  use  of  pretty  coloured  lights  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  Porte  St  Martin.  Nobody  molested  us,  though  we 
went  quietly  to  bed  without  showing  a  candle.  Throughout  the 
Thursday  not  a  newspaper  was  to  be  had;  the  Presae^  indeed, 
brought  out  a  half-sheet,  which  began  by  returning  thanks  to  the  two 
journeymen,  who,  <<  between  two  combats,'*  had  been  so  very  consi* 
derate  as  to  set  up  the  type.  These  gentlemen,  however,  did  not 
stay  long  to  work  out  this  praise ;  for  the  document  ended  abruptly 
in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  on  the  first  half-page.  Events  that  day 
worked  faster  than  compositors.  Ghreat  news  was  stale  before  it  had 
been  printed.  On  the  Friday  morning,  Galignani  failed  us;  and 
Aough  in  the  course  of  the  day  some  of  the  French  paners  made 
their  appearance,  they  were  printed  in  scraps,  one  piece  of  news  at  a 
time,  and  sold  at  famine  prices.  By  noon  on  Friday  the  entire  popu* 
lation  of  Paris  had  turned  out  in  the  Champs  Elys^es,  before  the 
Tuileries,  or  on  the  Boulevard.  The  most  perfect  good  order  was 
maintained.  There  were  no  vehicles ;  and  it  seemed  like  one  vast 
fSte,  The  Mouaea  were  all  armed,  and  there  was  more  firing  into  the 
air  than  was  exactly  agreeable  to  weak  nerves  on  the  occasion. 
Amongst  the  weapons  we  observed  was  a  new  one,  very  deadly,  about 
a  foot  and  a  half  long,  and  the  thickness  of  a  man's  arm,  contrived  to 
jerk  out  a  sort  of  pike-head  suddenly  against  an  enemy. 

From  the  flags  upon  the  public  offices  the  blue  and  white  had  been 
lorn  away,  and  every  man  wore  red  ribbon  in  his  button-hole ;  for 
the  respeckiblea  had  not  then  been  made  aware  that  red  was  the  badge 
of  communism.  On  the  Boulevard  all  the  iron  railing  had  been  torn 
up,  and  all  the  trees  (except  upon  the  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine)  cut 
down.  They  have  since  been  planted  again,  to  the  sound  of  the 
Marseillaise,  with  great  ceremony  and  a  procession.  The  shutters 
of  the  shops  were  closed,  and  on  all  of  them  was  chalked  '<  Armes 
donn^es,"  in  every  variety  of  spelling,  showing  that  the  leaders  of 
the  bands  who  had  been  there  for  weapons  were  not  Beauderks.  In 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix  there  was  not  a  single  one  of  these  announce-* 
ments  that  was  not  spelt  wrong.  Evenrwhere  a  paint-brush  had 
been  passed  over  the  words  *^roi,  ^'reine,  <'  royale;"  and  royal  arms, 
which  marked  the  tradesmen  of  the  court,  were  everywhere  removed. 
Indeed,  the  patriots  were  very  zealous  on  these  occasions :  two  little 
jfominB  were  observed  for  two  hours  patiently  hacking  to  pieces  with 
their  swords  a  cast  iron  Austrian  eagle. 


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416  THE  EVENTFUL  DAYS  OP   FEBRUARY   1848. 

lo  the  Tuileries  the  state  apartments  were  very  little  different  ironi 
what  they  are  on  a  gala  day.  The  ornamental  work  of  the  walEs 
was  a  good  deal  destroyed,  and  the  hangings  of  the  throne  room  cnit 
to  pieces.  In  one  place  a  bullet  had  gone  clean  through  a  fine  mir- 
ror, without  shattering  the  glass,  and  the  ceilings  were  full  of  bullet 
holes.  All  the  china,  porcelain,  and  crockery  was  broken  to  pieces, 
and  collected  into  a  grefat  heap  in  one  of  the  kitchens,  where  men 
were  treading  it  down. 

Great  as  the  crowd  was,  ejery  one  kept  in  his  place,  and  there  was 
no  crushing.  It  was  the  civilest  and  genteelest  mob  ever  beheld.  The 
Jardin  d'Hiver  was  open  ^froHs,  a  box  beins,  however,  held  **  Au 
profit  des  Blessis/"  the  mterior  (like  fairy-laniT  but  a  few  nights  be- 
fore, filled  with  all  the  richest  jewellery,  the  brightest  eyes  and  highest 
fashion  of  Paris  at  our  ball  for  the  British  Charitable  Fund)  was  now 
full  of  men  in  blouses^  some  smoking,  some  reading  the  magazines  and 
newspapers,  some  walking  through  the  conservatories,  but  over  every 
flower-bed  stood  an  armed  workman  guarding  it.  There  may  have 
been  between  four  and  five  hundred  dead  and  wounded,  but  the  sub* 
scriptions  for  their  benefit  are  enormous.  Every  class  has  done  some- 
thing for  them ;  for  instance,  on  the  Monday  and  the  Tuesday,  all 
the  cabs  announced  that  their  receipts  would  be  appropriated  to  the 
assistance  of  the  wounded.  Temporary  hospitals  were  everywhere 
established.  On  the  Friday  the  shops  were  partially  open,  and  the 
muskets  were  disappearing ;  but  on  the  Saturday  the  carriages  came 
out  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  the  dandies  reappeared,  and  no  arms  ex- 
cept in  the  hands  of  National  Guards  were  to  be  seen.  At  present, 
in  this  third  week  of  the  republic,  the  public  promenades  were  never 
more  lively  or  more  crowded.  Velvets  and  sables  continue  to  sweep 
the  side-walks,  and  even  coronets  upon  the  panels  of  the  carriages 
may  be  counted  in  a  few  minutes  by  dozens,  though  many  persons 
effaced  them  on  the  first  day  of  the  revolution. 

On  Saturday,  the  4th  of  March,  I  saw  the  great  procession  along 
the  Boulevards  to  bury  the  dead.  There  must  have  been  nearly 
800,000  persons  in  the  procession,  chiefly  civilians,  and  of  spectators 
as  many  more.  It  was  a  procession  worthy  of  the  occasion.  I  had 
seen  the  funeral  of  Napoleon,  and  the  procession  at  the  coronation  of 
the  Queen,  but  nothing  of  the  kind  I  ever  saw  impressed  me  so  much 
as  this  did.  It  was  a  Procesmn  of  Peace.  The  most  extraordinary 
part  of  this  procession  was,  however,  that  there  was  not  a  single 
policeman  or  soldier  to  keep  order. 

One  of  the  most  distinctive  features  of  this  Revolution  is,  that  so 
far  from  putting  itself  in  antagonism  with  religious  feeling,  it  has 
everywhere  appealed  to  it  The  story  of  the  respect  [Miid  by  the 
mob  to  the  crucifix  in  the  Tuileries,  has  made  a  great  impression, 
and  there  are  a  thousand  anecdotes  in  circulation  that  are  pendanis 
to  it.  The  clergy  seem  to  feel  their  true  position  as  patrons  of  the 
cause  of  order,  justice,  and  mercy,  wherever  it  may  be  found. 

Who  would  have  dared  to  prophesy  six  weeks  ago  that  there  were 
such  depths  of  honour,  virtue,  and  generosity  in  a  French  mob? 
They  have  carried  us  gloriously  through  this  crisis, — who  shall  now 
dare  to  say  what  they  may  not  yet  do  in  the  greater  diflBlculties  of 
social  and  political  regeneration  ?  The  revolution  has  taught  us  not 
to  predict,  and  above  all  not  to  despair. 


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417 
A  PIPE  WITH  THE  DUTCHMEN. 

BT  J.  VARVEL. 

BEKinir.  —  OLDENBUBO.^ — THE  DROSKT  AKD  DUTCHMAN.— A  DUTCH  INIT 
— DEVENTER.  —  THE  OUDE  DOELEM.  —  A  DUTCH  MERCHANT. — AMSTER- 
DAM.— MT   PIPE   GOME   OUT. 

I  NBVBB  want  to  go  to  Bremen  again.  There  are  pretty  walks  upon 
the  ramparts,  and  there  is  old  hock  under  the  Hotel  de  Ville  in  enor- 
mous casks,  and  there  are  a  parcel  of  mummied  bodies  lying  under  the 
church,  that  for  a  silver  mark,  Hamburg  money,  the  sexton  will  be  de- 
lighted to  shew  one ;  but  the  townspeople,  such  of  them  as  happened 
about  the  Linden-hof,  upon  the  great  square,  seemed  very  stupid ;  and 
not  one  could  tell  me  how  I  was  to  get  to  Amsterdam.  But  a^er  some 
further  inquiries,  I  found  my  way  to  a  cockloft,  where  a  good-natured 
Dutchman  received  me,  and  took  me  to  the  Exchange,  and  the  wine-cellar, 
and  left  me  at  the  Poste,  with  my  name  booked  for  Oldenburg  the  same 
afternoon.  The  mail  line  was  the  property  of  the  Duke  of  Oldenburg, 
and  a  very  good  one  it  was,  for  we  went  off  in  fine  style  in  a  sort  of 
drosky  drawn  by  two  Dutch  ponies. 

There  is  a  dreamy  kind  of  pleasure  in  scudding  so  fast  over  so 
smooth  and  pretty  roads  as  lay  between  us  that  afternoon  and  the  capi- 
tal of  the  duchy  of  Oldenburg.  There  was  a  kindly-looking  old  man 
sat  opposite  to  me  in  the  drosky,  who  would  have  talked  with  me  more 
— ^for  we  mustered  a  little  of  common  language — ^but  for  a  gabbling 
Danois,  who  engrossed  nearly  the  whole  of  his  time.  I  met  him  again 
in  the  park  of  the  duke,  and,  arm-in-arm,  the  vieUlard  and  I  rambled 
over  it  together,  under  the  copper-leaved  beech-trees,  and  by  the  stripes 
of  water  that  lav  in  the  lawn. 

It  was  in  Oldenburg  I  saw  first  the  Dutch  taste  for  flowers.  Every 
house  had  its  parterre  of  roses  and  tulips ;  and  the  good  old  custom  of 
taking  tea  in  the  midst  of  them,  before  the  door,  was  zealously  main- 
tained*  And  I  could  see  the  old  ladies  lifting  their  teapots,  and  the 
girls  smirking  behind  their  saucers,  as  I  walked  before  the  houses  still 
chatting  with  the  old  gentleman  of  the  drosky. 

A  little  past  sunrise,  I  took  my  first  cup  of  coffee  in  a  true  Dutch 
inn»  The  floor  was  as  clean  as  the  white  deal  table,  but  made  of  po- 
lished tiles ;  the  huge  chimney  was  adorned  with  the  same.  The  walls 
were  fresh  painted  and  washed ;  the  dishes  were  set  on  edge  upon  the 
shelves,  and  the  copper  saucepans  hung  round,  as  redly  bright  as  in 
Bassano's  pictures.  The  clock  stood  in  the  comer  ;  the  slate  and  the 
pencil  were  hanging  beside  the  casement ;  a  family  portrait  hung  over 
one  end  of  the  mantel,  and  the  hour-glass  and  the  treasures  were  ranged 
below*  A  black  and  white  cat  was  curled  up  and  dozing  in  a  straight- 
backed  chair,  and  a  weazen-faced  landlady  was  gliding  about  in  a  stiff 
white  cap. 

When  we  reached  Deventer,  it  was  the  middle  of  the  morning  of  a 
market  day,  and  the  short-gowned  women  thronging  over  the  great 
square,  under  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral,  seemed  just  come  out  of  the 
studioa  of  the  old  Dutch  painters.  We  ate  some  of  the  eggs  that  were 
in  pyramids  among  them,  at  the  inn  of  the  Crown.     Rich  enough  is  the 


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418  A   PIPE   WITH   THE  DUTCHMEN. 

primitiveness  of  all  this  region.  Even  the  rude  stares  that  met  me  and 
my  southern  garb  in  the  streets,  were  more  pleasing  than  annoying. 
Strangers  rarely  come  into  the  region  merely  to  look  about  them ;  and 
so  little  is  there  even  of  local  travel,  that  the  small  silver  coin  I  had 
taken  the  evening  before,  was  looked  doubtfully  upon  by  the  ginger- 
bread dealers  of  Deventer.  In  every  other  portion  of  Europe  I  had 
been  harassed  by  falling  in  with  French  and  English,  in  every  coach 
and  at  every  inn.  Here  I  was  free  from  all  but  natives ;  aud  not  a 
single  post  carriage  had  I  fallen  in  with  over  all  the  country  from  Bre- 
men to  Deventer.  There  was  a  spice  of  old  habits  in  every  action. 
There  was  a  seeming  of  being  translated  a  century  or  two  back  iu  life ; 
and  neither  in  coaches,  nor  horses,  nor  taverns,  nor  hostesses,  was  there 
any  thing  to  break  the  seeming.  The  eggs  at  the  inn  were  served  in 
old  style ;  the  teapot^  low  and  sprawling,  was  puffing  out  of  a  long, 
crooked  nose,  by  the  fire,  in  good  old  fashion ;  the  maid  wore  a  queer 
old  cap  and  stomacher,  and  she  and  the  cook  peeped  through  the  half- 
opened  door,  and  giggled  at  the  strange  language  we  were  talking. 

The  daughters  of  the  market-women  were  many  of  them  as  fresh  and 
rosy  as  their  red  cabbages ;  and  there  were  daughters  of  gentlewomen, 
looking  as  innocent  as  the  morning  air,  out  of  the  open  casements ; — in 
short,  I  was  half  sorry  I  had  booked  for  Amheim ;  and  what  was  worse, 
that  the  coach  was  at  the  door  of  the  Crown. 

I  should  have  grown  very  sulky  in  the  coach,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
exceedingly  beautiful  scenery  we  were  going  through*  The  fields  were 
as  green  as  English  fields,  and  the  hedges  as  trim  and  blooming  as 
English  hedges*  The  cottage  were  buried  in  flowers  and  vines,  and  an 
svemie  embowered  us  all  the  way.  A  village  we  passed  through  was  the 
loveliest  gem  of  a  village  that  could  bless  an  old  or  a  young  lady's  eyes 
in  Enrope.  The  road  was  as  even  and  hard  as  a  table,  and  winding. 
Hedges  were  each  side  of  it,  and  palings  here  and  there  as  neatly 
painted  as  the  interiors  at  home ;  and  over  them,  amid  a  wilderness  of 
roses  and  jessamines,  the  white  faces  of  pleasant-looking  Dutch  cottages ; 
— the  road  throughout  the  village  as  tidy  as  if  it  had  been  swept,  and 
the  trees  so  luxuriant  that  they  bent  over  to  the  coach-top.  Here, 
again,  I  would  have  wished  to  stop — to  stop,  by  all  that  is  charmbg  in 
bright  eves — for  half  a  lifetime. 

An  old  Dutch  lady,  a  worthy  burgomaster's  wife  of  Amheim,  would 
not  leave  off  pointing  to  me  the  beauties  as  they  came  up,  with  her  f<yri 
joU  and  charmant ;  to  all  of  which  I  was  far  more  willing  in  accordance 
than  of  the  two-thirds  of  the  coach  seat,  which  was  surely  never 
intended  for  such  sized  bodies  as  that  of  the  burgomaster's  wife.  I  was 
sorry,  notwithstandmg,  when  we  had  finished  our  ride  in  the  clean 
streets  of  Amheim,  and  set  off,  in  a  hard  rain,  by  the  first  train 
for  Amsterdam.  All  the  way  down,  through  Naarden  and  Utrecht,  the 
rain  was  pouring  so  hard  that  I  had  only  glimpses  of  water  and  wind- 
mills. I  bade  my  friend  of  the  office  in  the  Amstel  good-by,  and 
though  he  promised  to  call  at  my  inn,  I  never  saw  him  again. 

I  did  not  much  like  the  little  back  room  on  the  first  fioor  which  they 
gave  me  at  the  Oude  Doelen,  for  it  seemed  I  could  almost  put  the  end 
of  my  umbrella  into  the  canal ;  and  there  was  a  queer  craft,  with  a  long 
bowsprit,  lying  close  by,  that,  for  aught  I  knew,  with  a  change  of  tide, 
might  be  tangling  her  jibboom  in  my  sheets.  I  ventured  to  say  to  my 
host  that  the  room  might  be  damp. 


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A   PIPE   WITH  THE   DUTCHMEN.  419 

'<  Le  diable  I"  said  my  host;  and  without  making  further  reply  to  my 
suggestion,  turned  round  and  spoke  very  briskly  with  the  head-waiter. 
What  he  said  I  do  not  know ;  but  when  he  had  finished,  the  waiter 
clasped  his  hands,  looked  very  intently  at  me,  and  exclaimed  with  the 
utmost  fervour, — "  Mon  Dim  /" 

I  saw  I  had  committed,  however  innocently,  some  very  grave  mis* 
take;  so  I  thought  to  recommend  myself  to  their  charities  by  taking 
the  room  at  once,  and  saying  no  more  about  the  dampness. 

When  I  woke  up,  the  sun  was  reflected  o£f  the  water  in  the  canal  into 
my  eyes.  From  the  time  I  had  left  Florence,  four  months  before,  I  had 
not  received  a  letter  from  home,  and  my  first  object  was  to  seek  out  a 
Mr.  Van  Bercheem,  to  whom  I  was  duly  accredited.  God^sends, 
in  verity,  are  letters  ^om  home,  to  one  wandering  alone ;  and  never  did 
a  wine  lover  break  the  green  seal  off  the  Hermitage  as  eagerly  as  I 
broke  open  the  broad  red  wax,  and  lay  back  in  the  heavy,  Dutch  chair, 
and  read,  and  thought,  and  dreamed — dreamed  that  Europe  was  gone 
— utterly  vanished ;  and  a  country  where  the  rocks  are  rough,  and  the 
hills  high,  and  the  brooks  all  brawlers,  came  suddenly  around  me, — 
where  I  walked  between  homely  fences,  but  under  glorious  old  trees, 
and  opened  gateways  that  creaked ;  and  trod  pathways  that  were  not 
shaven,  but  tangled  and  wild ;  and  said  to  my  dog,  as  he  leaped  in  his 
crazy  joy  half  to  my  head,  '<  Good   fellow.  Carlo  I " — and  took  thb 

little  hand,  and  kissed  that  other  soft  cheek heighol  dreaming, 

surely ;  and  I  all  the  while  in  the  little  back  parlour  of  the  Oude  Doelen 
at  Amsterdam  I 

A  rosy  young  woman  came  out  into  the  shop  that  I  entered  with  the 
valet,  upon  one  of  the  dirty  canals,  and  led  me  into  a  back  hall,  and  up 
a  dark  stairway,  and  rapped  at  a  door,  and  Mr.  Van  Bercheem  ap« 
peared.  He  was  a  spare,  thin-faced  man  of  forty, — a  bachelor,-^ 
wedded  to  business.  At  first,  he  saw  in  me  a  new  connection  in  trade ; 
it  was  hard  to  disappoint  him,  and  I  half  encouraged  the  idea ;  but  my 
present  travel,  I  assured  him,  was  wholly  for  observation. 

Ah,  he  had  tried  it,  but  it  would  not  do.  He  was  lost, — withering  up, 
soul  and  body,  when  he  was  away  from  his  counting-room.  He  had 
tried  the  country, — he  had  tried  society  for  a  change,  but  he  cotild  find 
no  peace  of  mind  away  from  his  books. 

He  spoke  of  the  great  names  upon  'Change, — ^the  Van  Diepens,  the 
Van  Huyems,  the  De  Heems ;  and  I  fancied  there  had  been  hours  when 
he  had  listened  to  himself,  adding  to  the  roll, — Van  Bercheem. 

The  valet  put  his  head  in  at  the  door  to  ask  if  I  wished  him  longer ; 
I  dismissed  him,  and  the  merchant  thanked  me. 

'<  These  fellows  are  devils,  monsieur ;  he  has  been  keeping  his  place 
there  at  the  door  to  know  what  bosiness  you  and  I  can  have  together, 
and  he  will  tattle  it  in  the  town ;  and  there  are  men  who  disgrace  the 
profession  of  a  merchant,  who  will  pay  such  dogs  ;*' — and  he  lowered  his 
voice,  and  stepped  ligMlj  to  the  door^  and  opened  it  again  ;  but  I  was 
glad  the  valet  had  gone. 

He  asked  me  in  with  him  to  breakfast ;  it  was  only  across  the  back 
hall,  in  a  little  parlour,  heavily  curtaraed,  and  clean  as  Dutch  parlours 
are  always.  The  breakfast,  was  served, — I  knew  not  by  whom, — per- 
haps the  rosy  woman  in  the  shop  below.  A  cat  that  walked  in,  and  lay 
down  on  the  rug,  was  the  only  creature  I  saw,  save  my  friend,  the  mer- 
chant.   I  tried  to  lead  him  to  talk  of  the  wonders,  and  of  the  society  of 


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420  A  PIPE  WITH   THE   DUTCHMEN. 

Amsterdam;  but  his  mind  worked  back  insensibly  ta  *Cbange  and 
trade.  He  finished  his  breakfast,  and  went  back  with  me  to  the 
counting-room.  He  gave  me  a  list  of  his  correspondences; — he  put 
in  my  hands  a  great  packet  of  cards  of  houses  from  Smyrna  to  Cal- 
cutta, and  of  each  he  gave  me  a  brief  history,  with  the  never-failing 
close,  that  each  was  safe  and  honourable.  He  pressed  upon  me  thirty- 
five  cards  of  the  house  of  Van  Bercheem ; — he  wished  me  success ; — 
he  hoped  I  would  not  be  forgetful  of  him,  and  sent  a  little  Dutch  boy  in 
the  office  to  show  me  the  palace.  He  went  back  pale  to  his  books.  I 
shall  never  forget  him. 

In  an  hour,  with  the  Dutch  boy,  I  was  on  the  top  of  the  tower  of  the 
palace.  The  view  that  lay  under  my  eye  that  July  day,  and  one  not 
wholly  dissimilar,  seen  three  months  before  from  the  tower  of  San 
Marco,  at  Venice,  are  the  most  strangle  that  met  my  eye  in  Europe. 

Here,  as  at  Venice,  there  was  a  world  of  water,  and  the  land  lay  flat, 
and  the  waves  played  up  to  the  edges,  as  if  they  would  cover  it  over.  At 
Venice,  the  waters  were  bright,  and  green,  and  moving.  At  Am- 
sterdam, they  lay  still  and  black  in  the  city,  and  only  where  the  wind 
ruffled  them  in  the  distance  did  they  show  a  sparkle  of  white*  The 
houses,  too,  seemed  tottering  on  their  uneasy  foundations,  as  the  palaces 
of  Venice  and  the  tower  of  the  Greek  church  had  seemed  to  sway. 

But  the  greatest  difference  between  the  two  was  in  the  stir  of  life. 
Beneath  me,  in  the  Dutch  capital,  was  the  Palace  Square  and  the  Ex- 
change, thronging  with  thousands,  and  cars  and  omnibusses  rattlmg 
among  them.  Along  the  broad  canals,  the  boatmen  were  tugging  their 
clumsy  craft,  piled  high  with  the  merchandise  of  every  lancL  Every 
avenue  was  crowded,  every  quay  cumbered  with  bales,  and  vou  could 
trace  the  boats  along  the  canals  bearing  o£f  in  every  direction ;  even 
India  ships  were  gli£ng  along  upon  artificial  water  above  the  meadows 
where  men  were  xeaping ;  and  the  broad,  high  dykes,  stretching  like 
sinews  between  land  and  water,  were  studded  thick  with  mills,  turning 
unceasingly  their  broad  arms,  and  multiplying  in  the  dutance  to  mere 
revolving  specks  upon  the  horizon. 

Venice  seemed  asleep.  The  waves,  indeed,  broke  with  a  light  mur- 
mur against  the  palace  of  the  Doge,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  tower,  but 
the  boats  lay  rocking  lazily  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  or  the  graceful 
gondolas  glided  noiselessly.  The  Greek  sailors  slept  on  the  decks  of 
their  quaint  feluccas ;  no  roll  of  cart,  or  horses*  heavy  tread,  echoed 
over  the  Piazza  di  San  Marco ;  a  single  man-of-war  lay  with  her  awning 
spread  at  the  foot  of  the  Grand  Canal  There  was  an  occasional  foot- 
fall on  the  pavement  below  us ;  there  was  the  dash  of  the  green  sea- 
water  over  the  marble  steps ;  there  was  the  rustling  of  the  pigeons' 
wings,  as  they  swooped  in  easy  circles  around  us,  and  then  bore  down  to 
their  resting-places  among  the  golden  turrets  of  St.  Mark ;  every  thing 
beside  was  quiet ! 

The  little  Dutch  boy  and  I  went  down  the  steps  together.  I  thanked 
him,  and  asked  him  my  way  into  the  Jews'  quarter  of  the  town.  He 
would  not  permit  me  to  go  alone.  He  had  learned  French  at  his  school, 
where,  he  said,  all  the  boys  of  merchants  spoke  it  only ;  and  a  great 
many  intelligent  inquiries  he  made  of  me,  about  that  part  of  the  world 
which  could  not  be  seen  from  the  top  of  the  palace  tower :  for  further, 
poor  soul,  he  had  never  been.  The  tribe  of  Israel  cannot  be  clean  even 
in  Dutch-land ;  and  though  their  street  was  broad,  and  the  houses  rich. 


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A   PIPE   WITH   THE   DUTCHMEN.  421 

there  was  more  filth  in  it  than  in  all  the  rest  of  Amsterdam  together. 
There  they  pile  old  clothes^  and  they  polish  diamonds  hy  the  thousand. 

Walking  along  under  the  trees  upon  the  quays  heside  the  canals,  one 
sees  in  little,  square  mirrors,  that  seem  to  he  set  outside  the  windows  of 
the  houses  for  the  very  purpose,  the  faces  of  the  prettiest  of  the  Dutch 
girls.  Old  women,  fat  and  spectacled,  are  not  so  husy  with  their  knit- 
ting but  they  can  look  into  them  at  times,  and  see  all  down  the  street, 
without  ever  being  observed.  It  is  one  of  the  old  Dutch  customs,  and 
while  Dutch  women  are  gossips,  or  Dutch  girls  are  pretty,  it  will  pro- 
bably never  go  by.  In  Rotterdam,  at  Leyden,  at  Utrecht,  and  the 
Hague,  these  same  slanting  mirrors  will  stare  you  in  the  face. 

Nowhere  are  girls'  faces  prettier  than  in  Holland  ;  complexions  pearly 
white,  with  just  enough  of  red  in  them  to  give  a  healthy  bloom,  and 
their  hands  are  as  fair,  soft,  and  tapering,  as  their  eyes  are  full  of  mirth, 
witchery,  and  fire. 

I  went  through  the  street  of  the  merchant  princes  of  Amsterdam.  A 
broad  canal  sweeps  through  the  centre,  full  of  every  sort  of  craft,  and 
the  dairy-women  land  their  milk  from  their  barges,  on  the  quay  in  front 
of  the  proudest  doors.  The  houses  and  half  of  the  canal  are  shaded 
with  deep-leaved  lindens,  and  the  carriages  rattle  under  them,  with  the 
tall  houses  one  side,  and  the  waters  the  other. 

My  boy-guide  left  me  at  the  steps  of  the  Royal  Gallery.  There  is  in 
it  a  picture  of  twenty- five  of  the  old  city  guard,  with  faces  so  beer- 
loving  and  real,  that  one  sidles  up  to  it,  with  his  hat  hanging  low,  as  if 
he  were  afraid  to  look  so  many  in  the  face  at  once.  And  opposite  are 
some  noble  fellows  of  Rembrandt's  painting,  going  out  to  shoot ;  they 
jostle  along,  or  look  you  in  the  face,  as  carelessly  as  if  they  cared  not 
one  ^g  for  you,  or  the  Dutch  burgomaster's  family,  who  were  with  me 
looking  on  that  morning;  and  there  was  a  painted  candle-light  and 
bear-hunt, — how  a  tempest  of  memory  scuds  over  them  all,  here  in  my 
quiet  chamber,  that  I  can  no  more  control  than  the  wind  that  is  blowing 
the  last  leaves  away ! 

Would  to  heaven  I  were  gifted  with  some  Aladdin  touch,  to  set  be- 
fore you — actual — only  so  many  quaint  things  and  curious,  as  lie  toge- 
ther in  the  old  Dutch  capital ;  churches,  and  pictures,  and  quays,  and 
dykes,  and  spreading  water, — sluggish  and  dead  within,  but  raging  like  a 
horse  that  is  g^ded  without  I 

Like  a  toad  the  city  sits,  squat  upon  the  marshes ;  and  her  people 
push  out  the  waters,  and  pile  up  the  earth  against  them,  and  sit  down 
quietly  to  smoke.  Ships  come  home  from  India  and  ride  at  anchor 
before  their  doors,— coming  in  from  the  sea  through  paths  they  have 
opened  in  the  sand,  and  unlading  their  goods  on  quays  that  quiver  on 
the  bogs.  Amsterdam  is  not  the  most  pleasant  place  in  the  world,  when 
a  June  sun  is  shining  hot  upon  the  dead  water  of  its  canals,  and  their 
green  surface  is  only  disturbed  by  the  sluggish  barges,  or  the  slops 
of  the  tidy  house-maids.  I  grew  tired  of  its  windmills  and  clumsy 
drawbridges,  and  tired  of  waiting  for  Cameron.  I  left  him  a  note  at 
theOude  Doelen,  telling  him  that  we  would  talk  over  matters  some 
day — Heaven  grant  that  the  day  some  time  cornel — upon  the  green 
banks  of  wild  Loch  Oich. 


VOL.  ZXIII.  H 

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422 


SCENES  FROM  THE  LAST  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.^ 

BT   TUB   FLANBUB   IN   PABI8. 
WITH   A   POETBAIT   OP    Iff.  OUtSOT. 

Thb  events  of  that  rapid  and  sweeping  revolution,  whidi  in  a  few 
hours  overthrew  a  monarchy  in  France,  and  established  a  republic, 
are  too  well  known  to  need  any  repetition.  But,  although  all  these 
matters  be  now  "  familiar  things  "  in  men's  mouths,  yet  a  few  vague 
sketches  of  the  phi^iiognomtf,  as  well  moral  as  extemu,  of  the  French 
capital  during  that  week  of  convulsion,  when  the  first  act  of  a  great 
drama  of  history  was  acted,  mav  not  be  unacceptable,  perhajM,  from 
the  pen  of  one  who  has  already  made  Paris  and  the  Parisiana  his 
study,  and  who  was  a  spectator  of  many  of  the  stirring  scenes 
enacted. 

As  early  as  Monday,  the  day  previous  to  the  supposed  meeting  of 
the  Opposition  banquet,  the  first  impression  of  the  quiet  resident  in 
Paris,  on  leaving  his  house,  was  to  ask,  "  What  great  holiday,  or 
what  great  fete  is  it  to-day  ?  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  these  peo- 
ple in  the  streets?" — for  the  streets  were  thronged,  not  with  a 
rabble-mob,  but  with  the  usual  citisen-like  promenaders  of  Sundays 
and  holidays.  No  one  could  tell.  But  everybody  expected  some^ 
thing,  although  nobody  as  yet  knew  what:  and  everybodv  who 
could  leave  his  business  to  come  abroad,  and  many  who  could  not, 
had  come  forth  **  a  sight-seeing,"  alUiough  there  was  no  si^ht  to  see 
but  themselves.  It  was  known  that  the  public  demonstration  of  the 
Opposition,  fixed  for  the  morrow,  had  been  utterly  forbidden  by  the 
government, — that  eightv  thousand  troops  of  different  arms  were 
collected  in  and  about  the  capital :  people  then  went  home  disap- 
pointed, and  said  that  all  was  over.  Disappointed!  All  over.^ — 
Nothing  was  yet  be^un ;  and  Paris  slept  tranquilly  that  night. 

Yes !  Paris' slept  in  quiet,  and  allowed  the  morning  of  the  Tues- 
day— the  day  fixed  for  the  demonstration  that  wcls  not  to  take  place, 
said  almost  every  one, — ^to  dawn,  in  the  hope  that,  since  the  Opposi- 
tion had  given  up  their  banquet,  and  such  an  overwhelming  force  of 
troops  was  collected  to  overawe  the  tumultuous,  and  check  any  dis- 
position to  riot,  another  Smeute  in  Paris  would  have  been  strangled 
in  its  birth.  At  a  little  before  noon  on  Tuesday  those  who  dwelt  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  Place  Louis  XV.,  and  consequently  of  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies,  might  be  aware  that  there  was  now  really 
''something," — that  a  storm  was  rising;  for,  in  their  quiet  apart- 
ments they  began  to  hear  a  distant  noise,  that  came  by  "  fitful  gusts  " 
along  the  air.  By  degrees,  however,  the  roar  became  distincUy  the 
roar  o£  men ;  and  even  articulate  cries  might  be  heard. 

As  the  Fldneur  proposes  now  principally  to  sketch  such  scenes  as 
passed  before  his  own  personal  observation,  he  trusts  he  will  be  for. 
given  for  the  apparent  egotism  of  personal  narrftlive>  as  he  now 
plunges  all  at  once  into  extracts  from  his  daily  journal. 

"  When  I  <  turned  out'  1  found  my  street  in  a  state  of  uproar  and 

*  The  above  account  reached  the  Editor  so  late  in  the  month,  that  he  is  com- 
pelled to  avail  himself  of  such  portions  only  as  appeared  more  particularij  interest- 
ing to  the  publia 


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t 
FRENCH   REVOLUTION.  42S 

confusion.  Tradespeople  were  closing  the  shutters  of  their  shops  in 
haste ;  troops  of  the  line  occupied  both  ends  of  the  street ;  throngs  of 
curious  idlers  were  pouring  hither  and  thither/' — ^for  the  circulation 
was  not  impeded  at  any  tame  upon  the  pavement ;  "  heads  were  pro« 
trnded  from  every  window  ;  and  groups  of  servants^  porters>  porter- 
esses^  and  cook-maids,  stood  wondering  and  screeching,  like  frighten* 
ed  sea-gulls,  before  every  door.  The  tide  of  curious  was  pouring 
towards  the  Place  Louis  A V.,  whence  the  noise  of  shouting  came. 
At  the  further  end  of  it  was  a  crowd  of  apparently  some  five  or  six 
thousand  men,  or  rather  boys,  —  gamins  of  the  streets,  for  the  most 
part,-«chiefly  attired  in  blouses;  the  salaried  agents,  probably,  of 
the  chiefs  of  the  Opposition.  This  mob  was  unarmed,  and  seemed  to 
bt  engaged  in  nothing  but  shouting,  with  lungs  cleared  and  strength- 
ened with  liqucNT,  the  cry  '  Vive  la  Reforme  f  Down  with  Guizot  1' 
Presently  another  body  of  rioters  were  seen  advancing  along  the  quay 
on  the  further  side  of  the  river  leading  towards  the  Invalides.  The 
guards  on  the  bridge,  fearing  to  be  surrounded  probably,  retreated 
from  their  position.  The  mob  rushed  forward  in  a  body, — the  two 
columns  met,  and  the  whole  mass  now  stood  before  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies.  A  few  men  in  smocks  were  to  be  seen  climbing  the  rail- 
ings before  the  building.  The  shouting  continued  ;  and  a  thrusting 
and  tumult  were  visible  from  afar.  After  a  time  the  invaders  leapt 
back  over  the  palisadings  even  more  quickly  than  they  had  climbed 
them.  Then  came  the  yell  of  the  thousands  of  voices,  and  the  mob 
poured  back  over  the  bridge  in  overflowing  tide,  filling  the  Place 
Louis  XV.  A  detachment  of  dragoons  followed,  galloping.  Then 
emerged  over  the  bridge  a  battalion  of  infantry.  For  the  first  time 
stones  began  to  fly ;  but,  after  a  slight  resistance  the  mob  was  forced 
to  retreat.  The  most  part  scoured  into  the  Champs  Elysees ;  some 
fled  to  the  Rue  des  Champs  Elysees,  from  whence  screams  and 
shrieks  of  distress  might  be  heard  mingled  with  the  roaring  o£  the 
shouts. 

*'  In  the  Champs  Elysees  the  scene  of  riot  became  more  active, 
more  serious,  and  consequently  more  picturesque.  As  the  troops 
slowly  advanced,  the  mob  retreated,  but  continued  to  keep  up  a  sort 
of  bush-fighting  among  the  trees;  rushing  forward  at  intervals  to 
flinff  such  stones  or  heavy  missiles  as  lay  in  their  way,  then  flying 
back  to  the  trees  and  among  the  spectators,  and  laughing  in  hoarse 
screams  amidst  the  shouts  of  'Down  with  Guizot!  Vive  la  Re* 
forme ! '  During  this  more  visible  demonstration  in  the  front  ranks 
of  the  mob,  however,  active  measures  were  being  taken  in  the  rear. 
Young  trees  were  cut  down,  the  chains  placed  for  the  convenience  of 
the  promenaders  caught  up,  and  an  ommbus  coming  down  the  avenue 
from  the  Barriere  de  TEtoile  was  seized  on :  the  whole  was  heaped 
together  in  the  road  to  form  a  barricade,  a  system  of  defence  to  which 
frequent  practice  and  constant  experience  have  trained  the  Parisian 
population  to  such  a  pitch  of  strategic  intelligence,  that  it  is  employ- 
ed with  a  rapidity  and  generally  with  a  tact  in  the  choice  of  position, 
marvellous  to  see.  But,  although  the  first  instinct  of  the  Parisian 
had  byeen  to  construct  for  defence,  the  second  seemed  to  be  to  de*^ 
stroy  from  recklessness.  A  quantity  of  wood  had  been  pillaged 
frt>m  a  wood-yard,  together  with  several  sacks  of  pine- wood-apples : 
these  were  flung  upon  the  barricade ;  fire  was  applied.  In  an  incre- 
dibly short  space  of  time  the  whole, — chairs,  omnibus,  wood,  sacks^ 


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424  SCENES  FROM  THE  LAST 

naked  trees  with  forked  branches — all  was  in  an  immense  blase ;  and 
when  the  cavalry  advanced  up  the  avenue^  they  were  met  by  donds 
of  stifling  smoke  borne  down  by  the  wind  against  them,  and  drifting 
flames.  The  confusion  began  every  moment  to  increase.  The  horse- 
men galloped  among  the  trees  after  many  of  the  rioters,  who  fled  un- 
armed. Several  of  the  spectators  began  also  to  retreat  in  alarm. 
In  the  midst  of  the  smoking  masses  far  and  near,  the  flying  mob,  the 
pursuing  horsemen,  the  occasional  flights  of  stones,  and  the  hurry- 
ing backwards  of  the  now  terrified  spectators,  across  the  broad 
avenue,  among  the  trees,  around  the  fountains,  into  the  smart,  fim- 
tasticdly  built  cqfis  around,  a  scene  of  frightful  tumult  soon  flashed 
before  the  eyes,  like  a  wild,  confused,  distracted  dream.  As  yet  I 
had  not  heard  a  sinsle  shot  fired.  The  principal  scene  of  action  was 
now  turned  from  &e  Champs  Elysees :  confusion  and  devastation 
enough,  it  is  true,  were  still  visible  upon  the  stage  of  riot ;  but  the 
roaring  now  came  chiefly  from  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore. 

*'  Everywhere  the  shops  were  shut,  all  the  passages  closed,  all  the 
environs  of  the  Tuileries  thronged  with  troops ;  but  the  circulation 
was  everywhere  free.  In  the  Rue  St.  Honore  a  few  boys  in  blouses 
were  seizing  upon  fiacres  and  cabs  to  form  barricades.  Sometimes 
they  succeeded  in  their  capture,  sometimes  scuffles  ensued  with  the 
drivers.  Hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  spectators  on  the  pavement 
were  looking  on ;  but  no  one  attempted  to  interfere  or  prevent :  it 
was  a  show — a  stage-play,  with  which  they  had  no  concern,  one 
would  suppose,  beyond  that  of  a  more  or  less  interested  audience. 

These  little  skirmishes  seemed  to  afford  much  amusement  to  the 
gamin*  themselves,  and  more  to  the  numerous  spectators.  I  wan- 
dered about  many  others  of  the  streets.  All  were  alike  crowded ; 
and  all  alike,  witn  their  closed  shops,  had  the  desolate  and  dreary 
look  of  a  town  in  a  state  of  siege.  On  the  Boulevards  were  the 
greatest  throngs,  but  of  idlers  and  spectators  only.  Troops  of  the 
line  and  Municipal  Guards  defended  the  Hotel  of  the  Mmister  of 
Foreign  Affairs ;  but  they  were  only  occupied  in  driving  back  a  few 
fellows  who  every  now  and  then  cried  "  Down  with  Guizot  I" 

In  the  evening  drums  were  beating  in  all  directions  to  call  out 
the  National  Guards.  The  sound  came  in  dreary  and  rumbling  gusts 
along  the  air :  they  seemed  to  be  beating  a  funeral  march,  while  a 
veil  of  dark  crape  hung  over  the  doomed  city;  for  the  night  was 
cold  and  drizzly  and  the  sky  leaden.  In  the  further  Boulevards  all 
was  black,  for  the  gas-lights  had  been  for  the  most  part  extinguish- 
ed ;  and  patrols  of  National  Guards  were  now  beginnmg  their  rounds 
in  darkness.  But  the  distant  noise  of  shouting  and  firing  now  came 
ftom  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Rue  St  Denis.  In  the  Place  Louis 
XV.  the  troops  had  lighted  a  great  fire,  and  bivouacked  as  in  a 
camp  in  time  of  war ;  but  even  the  heavily  smoking  fire  looked 
damped,  dispirited,  discouraged. 

'*  Wednesday,  February  53rd. — Although  the  efforts  of  the  rioters 
had  ceased  in  this  part  of  Paris"  (the  neighbourhood  of  the  Place 
Louis  XV.  and  the  Madeleine)  <'  yet  the  aspect  of  the  Boulevards  and 
the  streets  was  the  same  as  on  the  previous  day.  Bodies  of  National 
Guards,  however,  not  visible  the  day  before,  were  hurrving  hither 
and  thither;  and  from  far  and  near  came  the  incessant  rolling  of  the 
drums — a  heavy,  harrowing,  disquieting  sound.  At  intervds,  and 
sometimes  overpowering  the  incessant  beating  of  the  drums,  came 


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i^'-'isa^>  '  -^  ■ '  •;■■■    :#>«t  \' 


jrvi 


A-J..     ^.r  '.J   A  .'^    'U.'    -ui.   , 


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or.dor.  Ricliaj-cl  Bentley  1848 


\ 


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FRENCH   REVOLUTION.  425 

■from  the  fiur  disUnce^  in  the  direction  of  the  Rae  Montmartrey  the 
Rue  St.  Denis,  and  the  Rue  St.  Martin,  the  murmur  of  the  constant 
shouting,  intermingled  with  occasional  firing.  I  was  told  that  a 
sort  of  desultory  skirmishing  was  going  on  in  those  parts  of  Paris, 
that  several  persons  had  bera  kill^  by  the  Municipal  Guards,  and 
that  some  of  that  corps  had  fidlen ;  that  g^uard-houses  had  been 
taken,  retaken  by  the  Guards,  and  finally  again  stormed  by  the  mob, 
the  prisoners  arrested  released,  and,  in  fi^ct,  all  the  elements  of  an 
active  and  even  bloody  riot  still  going  on  at  their  work. 

''  But  news  more  serious  was  that  of  the  defection  of  a  great  part  of 
the  National  Guards.  Not  only  had  they  refused  to  act  against 
the  people,  but  they  had  '  fraternized '  with  them,  led  them  on  to 
drive  back  the  soldiers  of  the  line,  and  shouted  themselves,  'Down 
wiUi  Guizot!  Long  live*  Reform  1'  This  defection  was  a  deaths 
blow  to  the  ministry. 

'<  Tumultous  as  was  still  the  aspect  of  the  crowded  streets  and 
public  places,  yet,  amidst  the  waving  of  rapidly-formed  banners,  and 
the  singing  of  the  Marseillaise,  the  sentiment  was  one  of  triumph  and 
victory  rather  than  of  further  riot    People  embraced,  shook  hands, 
and  shouted  on  the  Boulevards.     And  now  as  the  dusk  commen<^ 
to  fall  over  the  throneed  and  moving  streets,  and  the  shouting  chorus- 
sing  masses,  a  few  lights  began  to  appear  at  windows  and  balconies — 
now  more — ^now  more :  then  came  the  universal  shout, '  Light  up ! 
light  up !'  and  with  a  rapidity  which  betrayed  as  much  fear  of  the 
mob  as  of  enthusiasm,  patches  and  points  of  fire  ran  up  and  down 
thefagadet  of  houses,  and  gleamed  first  in  confusion,  then  in  long  and 
more  regular  lines  alons  me  Boulevards, — the  illumination  was  in- 
stantaneous and  general.    Now,  all  at  once,  the  riot  wore  the  air  of 
a  noisy  fite.    *  AU  is  over !  Long  live  Reform !'  was  the  general  cry. 
"  Such  was  the  aspect  of  Paris  as  night  fell  on  the  Wednesday 
evening— an  aspect  of  rejoicing  and  noisy  satisfaction.    But  how 
soon  was  the  joy  to  be  again  replaced  by  mourning — ^the  shout  of 
satisfaction,  by  the  yell  of  vengeance !     The  cause  of  this  sudden 
change,  when  'all  was  over,'  is  well  known:  but  which  hand  fired 
the  train — what  party  threw  the  brand — whether  it  was  design,  or 
whether  an  accident,  none,  perhaps,  will  ever  now  know  clearly : 
this  little  but  all-important  fact  will  probably  remain  a  disputed 
mystery  of  historical  truth.     The  firing  of  a  body  of  soldiers,  guard- 
ing the  Hotel  of  the  ex-Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs,  upon  a  crowd 
that  advanced  against  it,  overthrew  a  monarchy.     The  most  probable 
supposition  appears  to  be  that  the  mob,  excited  by  the  republican 
party,  advanced  screaminff,  'Death  to  Guizot !'  and  that  the  troops 
thinking  an  attack  upon  ue  building  was  intended — ^which  in  itself 
is  not  improbable — fired.     Whatever  be  the  cause — whatever  the 
instigation— cm  that  moment  depended  the  destiny  of  the  kingdom 
of  France. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  the  frantic  scene  that  met  my  eyes  when  I 
issued  upon  the  Boulevards.  Men  were  rushing  hither  and  thither 
shouting,  '  Aux  armes,  citoyens  I  aux  armes  1  on  nous  egorge !  on 
nous  assassine !  out^— out !  to  arms !  to  arms !'  '  Vengeance  for  the 
blood  that  has  been  shed !  out^— out — to  arms !'  And  now  it  was  no 
longer  the  mob  of  the  lower  classes  that  shouted  the  shout  of  ven- 
geance :  those  who  cried  to  arms  were  well-dressed  men,  and  no 
longer  boys— men  of  all  dasses  and  ages,  seemingly.    Some  bore 


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426  8CBNE8   FROM  THE   LAST 

sticks  and  sUves^-^^ome  tongs  and  sbovels^wNiie  real  fire-anna-* 
some  swords.  They  knocked  at  every  door,  crying  for  arms,  atMl 
calling  on  the  citixens  to  come  out;  and  from  the  windows  above 
streamed  down  the  illumination  of  joy  to  light  up  the  scene  of 
frenzy — ^yes>  of  frenay  I  The  tumult  waxed  ever  more  and  mor^ 
until  the  air  pealed  as  with  thunder,  and  the  ears  were  deafened  bj 
ineesnnt  shouts.  Pickaxes  were  idready  employed  in  tearing  up 
the  pavemettt  o£  the  Boulevards— trees  were  being  cut  down— 4:>ilU 
sticking  turrets  smashed  to  the  ground — benches  torn  up — and  in 
an  incredibly  short  space  of  time  more  than  one  powerful  barricade 
was  fiung  over  the  whole  wide  breadth  of  the  Boulevards,  by  wM* 
dressed  and  even  elegant  young  men.  Torches  now  began  to  fy 
about-^guns  were  fired  on  in  me  air — anxious  faces  were  at  every 
illuminated  window— «rmed  men  hurried  out  of  every  door — and 
ever  and  on  all  sides  rose  incessantly  the  screams  of  the  crowd 
rushing  hither  and  thither  in  the  wildest  confusion  Uke  dark  demons 
of  vengeance,  '  out— out  to  arms  I  on  nous  assassine  1 '  A  yell  of 
vengeance  now  rose  more  fierce  than  any  yet  heard.  Along  the 
Boulevards,  from  the  fatal  spot  where  the  soldiers  had  fired,  came 
men  with  torches  bearing  aloft  the  bodies  of  those  who  had  been 
killed.     Never  shall  I  forget  that  shout — never  that  scone  of  frenay  f 

''Thursday,  February  24th.— When  I  went  out  the  sboU  were  to 
be  heard  near  in  all  directions.  My  own  street  was  filled  with 
troops,  both  cavalry  and  infantry.  But  all  the  streets,  not  imme^ 
diately  occupied  by  the  soldiery,  were  blocked  at  either  end  with 
barricades,  formed  of  the  stones  of  the  streets,  tumbrils,  carts,  tuba^ 
and  even  furniture,  and  guarded  each  by  two  or  three  men  or 
bojTS  as  sentinels:  but  the  circulation  was  otherwise  unimpeded, 
and  every  one  could  pass  over  these  quickly-constructed  ramparts^ 
Broken  bottles  also  strewed  the  streets  to  prevent  the  advance  of 
the  cavalry.  The  Parisians  by  practice  have  evidently  learnt  a  trick 
or  two  in  strategy. 

"  I  proceeded  towards  the  Place  Louis  XV.  and  the  Pont  de  la 
Concorde.  When,  making  my  way  through  the  troops,  I  gained 
the  Place,  the  whole  great  space  was  almost  clear,  to  mv  utter 
surprise ;  a  few  persons  only  were  hurrying  across.  At  the  mo» 
ment,  however,  that  I  was  about  to  advance,  a  disarmed  Municipal 
Guard  rushed  from  the  direction  of  the  Champs  Elysees  pursued 
bv  three  men  with  axes:  before  my  eyes  he  was  cut  down  and 
chopped  to  death.  His  cries  brought  up  the  troops  from  the  Rue 
Royale ;  at  the  same  moment,  however,  a  heavy  fire  was  poured 
upon  the  mob,  that  followed  the  foremost  murderers,  from  the 
trom)s  stationed  behind  the  gate  and  pallisading  of  the  Tuileries 
garaens.  Two  of  the  innocent  persons  passing  on  the  Place  fell: 
one  rushed  across  for  his  life,  and  flung  himself  pale  and  breath* 
less  almost  into  my  arms.  It  was  Henri  de  la  J —  d'A  *****  n. 
The  fire  continued  ineessantlv  from  both  parties ;  and  consequently 
the  attempt  to  reach  the  bridge  would  have  been  madness.  TIm 
Rue  de  Rivoli  was  blockaded  by  troops-^ the  Rue  St.  Honor^ 
likewise  —  the  Boulevard  before  the  foreign  office  also :  it  was 
necessary  to  go  round  by  back  streets  in  order  to  reach  the  Boule- 
vard des  Italians.  What  a  scene  of  desolation  it  exhibited !  it  looked 
like  a  mass  of  ruin !  the  good  trees  gone— the  posts  smashed  down 
—the  pavement  torn  up !     But  here  all  was  comparatively  quiet; 


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FRENCH  HEVOLCTIOK.  *i1 

altiioDgh  men  ami  boys  in  hhutes  guarded  the  barricades^  forming 
wildly  picturesque  groups — some  standing  on  the  rugged  summit 
of  the  temporary  rampart,  waving  flags  in  one  hand,  and  sabres  or 
muskets  in  the  other,  and  occasionally  giving  orders,  or  haranguing 
the  National  Guards  who  passed.     But  still  the  cry  was  ever  only, 
*  Five  ia  Refbrmel*    Passing  thus  into  the  Rue  Vivienne  with  the 
hopes  of  gaining  the  Place  du  Carousel  or  the  Pont  des  Arts  b^  the 
Louvre,  I  found  the  same  scene  of  constant  barricades,  sentinels, 
hurrying  frightened  throngs,  and  excited  National  Guards.    The 
work  of  insurrection  was  everywhere  going  on,  although  no  one 
seemed  exactly  to  know  with  what  ultimate  intent     Although 
every  shop  and  every  door  was  closed,  every  window   was  o]>en 
and  filled  with  heads.     The  noise  of  constant  firing  in  the  direction 
of  the  Palais  Royal  evidently  told  that  this  royal  residence  was 
being  stormed:  several  people  conjnred  me  not  to  go  on.     I  went 
on,  however,  and  bv  side- streets  reached  with  difficulty  the  Rue 
St.   Honore.     But  here  all  advance  was  again  impossible.     On 
one  side  of  me,  in  the  vista  to  the  right,  were  the  smoke,  and  the 
lightnings  of  incessant  firing  on  the  Place  du  Palais  Royal,  where 
the  people  were  attacking  the  post  of  the  Municipal  Guards :  cries, 
groans,  yells,  came  thence  in  the  midst  of  the  roar  of  the  artillery : 
wounded  men  were  being  dragged  into  shops  where  I  stood ;  and 
now  and  then  was  borne  o€  a  dead  body :  the  corpse  of  a  fair  youth, 
his  hair  hanging  down  all  dabbled  with  the  blood,  that  streamed 
from  his  shattered  forehead,  turned  me  sick  with  pity ;  and  around 
and  about,  and  at  all  the  windows,  were  ever  the  crowd  of  curious 
spectators,  looking  on  the  show.    On  the  other  side,  in  the  vista  to 
the  left  were  barricades,  crowded  with  wild  figures,  from  which 
shots  were  being  fired  in  the  contrary  direction.     It  was  again 
necessary  to  retrace  my  steps,  and  seek  to  gain  the  Pont  Neuf :  but 
I  was  soon  lost  in  a  labyrinth  of  small  streets  and  lanes,  wholly  un* 
known  to  me,  along  which  I  tried  to  scramble  my  weary  and  be- 
wildered way  over  endless  barricades — ^for  no  lane  was  so  small  that 
it  did  not  possess  one  at  each  end  ;  and  I  must  have  crossed  at  least 
a  hundred  in  my  progress.     Everywhere  I  saw  the  same  exdtement 
and  similar  scenes  of  confusion,  although  no  fighting  was  going  on. 
But  everywhere  the  passage  was  left  free  as  far  as  possible:  and  the 
rough  guardians  of  the  barricades,  in  their  torn  blouses,  often  laid 
down  their  arms,  and  gave  a  polite  hand  to  help  me  over.     I  stopped 
to  talk  with  many :  their  language  was  energetic,  sometimes  excited, 
but  chiefly  moderate  and  sensible.     They  complained  of  the  grind- 
ing and  exclusive  system  of  the  goverment,  and  still  talked  only  of 
obtaining  ftom  the  king  a  pledge  of  thorough  reform.    Certainly, 
as  far  as  their  manners  were  concerned,  the  people  of  Paris — the 
true  people — the  labouring  man  and  the  artizan — rose  more  during 
this  day's  ramble,  in  my  esteem,  than  I  could  have  thought  possi- 
ble :  it  would  have  been  the  blindest  prejudice  and  injustice  not  to 
have  been  struck  with  the  good  feeling,  the  moderation  and  the  po- 
liteness of  almost  all  I  spoke  with,  much  as  I  might  condemn  the 
manner  in  which  they  were  seeking  to  obtain,  what  they  called,  the 
redress  of  their  wrongs,  and  vengeance  for  blood-shed. 

*'  After  thus  toilins  on  my  way,  enouiring  my  direction  to  the 
quays,  I  found  mys^,  at  last,  much  further  eastward  than  I  had 
intended  in  the  Rue  St,  Denis.     Here  fighting  had  been  going  on 


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428  SCENES  FROM  THE  LAST 

during  an  earlier  part  of  the  day :  the  streets  and  barricades  were 
smeared  with  blood :  broken  windows  and  broken  lamps,  and  marks 
upon  the  walls  told  where  bullets  had  passed :  broken  pieces  o£  fur- 
niture lay  around :  on  all  sides  were  those  indescribable  remains  of 
fight  and  struggle  that  painted  in  fearful  colours  what  had  passed : 
and  here,  for  the  first  time,  I  saw  several  boys  sitting  on  the  huge 
stones  of  the  barricades  writing  quietly,  with  pen  and  ink  or  pencil, 
hand-bills^  which,  if  they  did  not  actually  proclaim  a  republic,  were 
of  a  most  republican  character :  these  bills  were  gathered  up,  as  soon 
as  transcribed,  by  two  or  three  men  in  better  attire.  I  thus  gained 
and  crossed  the  Place  du  Chatelet  and  the  Pont  au  Change.  On 
the  island  of  the  city,  the  guard-house  before  the  Palais  de  Justice 
was  burning  high,  and  illuminating  an  immense  screeching  mob. 

*'  Now  came  the  general  cry,  '  the  Tuileries  are  taken ! '  As 
I  approached  the  Tuileries  I  saw  throngs  of  people  at  every 
window,  on  every  balcony  of  the  palace.  Ouns  were  being  fired 
in  the  air,  as  Jeux  de  Jote,  in  all  directions  above,  below,  from 
great  talon  windows  and  from  attics,  from  the  place  and  court 
below.  Amidst  the  uproar  of  shouting  and  firing  a  wild  multi- 
tude was  pouring  forwards  to  the  palace,  ever  more,  and  more,  and 
more  'to  the  crash  of  doom;'  men,  women,  children,  almost  all 
armed,  more  or  less  seriously,  more  or  less  grotesquely,  dancing, 
singing,  chorusing,  embracing — the  most  frantic  scene  of  excite- 
ment !  and  all  on— on  to  the  palace,  from  which  a  king  and  his 
family  had  so  hastilv— -far  too  hastily  fied.  Some  were  already 
coming  forth  from  the  great  swarming  beehive  of  a  palace  with 
bread,  the  ammunition  of  the  soldiers,  legs  of  mutton,  jomts  of  meat 
on  their  bayonets,  and  bottles  of  wine  in  their  pockets ;  the  car- 
riages were  being  drasged  into  the  court,  furniture  flung  from  the 
broken  windows.  TI^  great  entrance  was  so  besieg^  when  I 
reached  it,  that  it  was  an  almost  hopeless  task  to  gain  admission 
there :  but  yet  the  multitude  gave  way  before  a  procession  that 
came  forth.  It  was  headed  by  a  youth  of  the  Polytechnic  School, 
in  uniform,  followed  by  an  old  man  bearing  the  great  cross  taken 
from  the  palace  chapel ;  it  was  guarded  by  men  of  the  people 
armed,  followed  by  others ;  all  were  without  their  hats ;  and  at  the 
general  cry,  '  respect  to  the  Holy  One  !'  the  frantic  mob  doffed  theirs 
on  every  side.  It  was  a  picture  that  stirred  one's  heart ;  a  picture 
of  religious  deference  in  the  midst  of  the  wildest  riot,  worthy  of  the 
pencU  of  a  great  painter  ;  a  scene  that  gave  for  the  moment  hopeful 
thoughts  of  the  better  feeling  of  the  people.  The  procession  passed 
on  with  the  cry  '  To  the  Church  of  St.  Koch/ 

"  By  a  side  entrance  to  the  right  and  a  small  staircase,  compara- 
tively free,  I  reach  the  first  floor  of  the  palace,  and  found  myself  in 
the  apartment  of  the  Duchess  of  Orleans.  Here  every  thing  gave 
evidence  of  a  good  spirit  among  the  mob.  The  crowd  was  great  to 
be  sure ;  but  it  gazed  with  curiosity  and  touched  nothing.  In  the 
salon  was  a  still  blazing  fire ;  on  a  table  were  several  books,  among 
which  the  *  Consulat '  of  Thiers,  and  the  '  AlgMe*  of  Alexander 
Dumas,  turned  down  o]^n  on  the  table-cloth,  as  the  unfortunate 
duchess  had  probably  laid  it  down  at  the  moment  of  disturbance ; 
on  the  floor  and  on  a  sofa  were  a  set  of  little  card-paper  soldiers  on 
wooden  stands,  set  out  as  if  for  battle,  with  which  her  two  boys  had 
probably  been  playing  when  taken  ft-om  their  sports  to  quit  their 


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FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  429 

home  and  return  to  it  no  more.  Touching  sight  1  A  boy  took  up 
one  of  the  toys,  but  an  armed  artisan^  covered  with  the  smoke  of 
battle,  forced  him  to  lay  it  down  again.  'Tis  but  a  toy/  expostu- 
lated  the  little  fellow^  '  But  if  you  take  a  toy,  others  would  think 
they  might  take  a  treasure^'  said  the  self-installed  guard,  angrily. 
In  the  bedroom  of  the  poor  duchess  %ere  the  hat  of  her  ill-timed 
husband,  his  epaulettes,  and  his  whip,  under  a  glass  case;  the 
crowd  walked  round  these  objects  curiously,  but  with  respect.  I 
saw  some  shed  tears.  Here  was  thrown  a  shawl  in  the  dressing- 
room — ^there  a  silk  dress,  signs  of  hasty  and  agitated  departure. 
Every  where  stood  small  objects  of  value  and  taste ;  but  nere  no 
one  touched  them.  My  heaK  was  quite  wrung  with  the  sight  of 
these  tokens  of  the  domestic  life  of  one,  born  for  high  destinies,  and 
now  a  fugitive, 

"  In  the  state  apartments  the  scene  was  far  otherwise.  Here  were 
the  wildest  confusion  and  disorder.  The  throne  had  been  already 
carried  away ;  the  cuitains  every  where  torn  down ;  the  candelabras 
smashed  1  every  where  thronging,  yelling,  half-intoxicated  crowds, 
fn  the  theatre  all  was  broken  and  torn ;  the  people  seemed  to  resent 
the  past  pleasures  of  the  royal  family.  In  the  chapel  the  altar  had 
been  respected !  but  every  other  object  was  broken.  In  the  king's 
private  rooms  the  scene  was,  if  possible,  more  disorderly  a^. 
Everything  was  broken,  and  papers  were  flung  about  In  truth 
there  seemed  not  much  of  value  to  destroy :  and  here  a  few  sturdy 
men  were  mounting  guard  over  what  appeared  to  be  collected  articles 
of  value,  or  cassettet  of  money.  A  few  ruffianly-looking  fellows 
were  devouring>  quietly  seated,  the  untouched  breakfast  set  out  for 
the  fugitive  king. 

**  I  knew  not  then  what  I  have  known  since,  the  scenes  that,  but 
a  few  hours  before,  had  passed  there ;  the  prostration  of  the  king's 
mind  at  the  unnecessary  alarm ;  the  entreaties,  the  commands  al- 
most, of  some  of  the  deputies  of  the  Opposition  for  his  abdication  in 
favour  of  his  grandson,  little  thinking  they  were  playing  a  game 
they  were  so  soon  to  lose,  at  the  moment  they  thought  to  win  it. 
The  supplications  of  the  queen,  she  generally  so  calm  and  so  re» 
signed,  who  went  from  one  to  the  ower  '  as  a  lioness,'  imploring 
ihem  not  to  counsel  such  an  act  of  cowardice,  urging  her  bewildered 
husband  '  rather  to  moimt  on  horseback,  and  allow  himself  to  be 
killed  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  than  thus  in  coward  spirit  to  throw 
down  a  crown  he  had  taken  up  against  her  will,  but  was  now 
bound  to  guard.'  And  yet  these  sad  scenes  of  history  had  passed, 
upon  that  spot  of  a  people's  riot  in  triumph,  so  shortly  before. 

''In  the  delicately  furnished  rooms  of  the  apartments,  belonging, 
I  believe,  to  the  Duchesses  of  Nemours  and  Alontpensier,  the  scene 
was  far  different  from  that  on  the  other  side  of  the  palace.  Much 
had  been  broken  and  destroyed;  dresses  torn  out,  articles  of  value 
scattered  about ;  letters  passed  from  hand  to  hand.  Nothing  was 
respected,  in  spite  of  the  violent  efforts  made  bv  many  of  the  better 
disposed.  Big  bearded  men  with  costly  shawls  upon  their  backs, 
and  cigars  in  their  mouths,  reclined  on  satin  sofas,  playing  at 
duchesses,  and  begging,  in  falsetto  voice,  that  curtains  miffht 
be  drawn  because  it  was  cold;  others  rolled  their  dirty  smoke- 
smeared  persons  in  the  white  beds,  with  obscene  jokes  and  gestures; 
whilst  by  the  side  of  one  stood  an  old  female  servant  crying  at  this 

VOL.  xxiii.  I  y~^  I 

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430    SCENES  FROM  THE  LAST  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

dishonour  of  her  mistress's  cooch,  perhaps  the  only  inmate  of  the 
palace  who  had  remained.  The  grotesque,  the  horrible,  the  un- 
seemly, the  wild,  and  the  pathetic,  were  mingled  in  a  scene  of  con- 
fusion like  a  hideous  nightmare,  that  none  who  have  witnessed  it 
ever  can  forget.     ^ 

"  In  the  couK,  as  I  came  fbrth,  were  l>lazing  bonfires  made  of  the 
royal  carriages  andfourgons,  and  piles  of  broken  furniture.  The 
people  were  rushing  about  with  torn  dresses,  and  strips  of  curtains 
on  their  bayonet-points.  One  drunken  man  stopped  me  to  beg  me 
to  feel  the  satin  of  Louis  Philippe's  court  breeches,  which  he  had 

Sut  on  over  his  own  pantaloons.  The  rattling  of  the  breaking  win- 
ows,  and  of  the  furniture  hurled  out  of  them,  was  constantly  ac- 
companied by  the  incessant  shouts  and  sinffing  of  the  '  MarseiUaise,' 
and  the  running  fire  of  the  discharged  muskets. 

^*  Great  was  my  astonishment  on  returning  to  the  desolate  scenes 
upon  the  Boulevards — desolate,  although  crowded  with  almost  all  the 
population  of  Paris, — when  the  blazing  guard-houses  shed  their  flames 
over  rioting  men,  drunken  with  wine  as  well  as  victory, — where  pools 
of  blood  still  marked  the  spot  where  the  fate-fraught  shots  had  been 
fired  on  the  previous  night  before  the  H6tel  of  Foreign  Afiairs,  on 
the  walls  of  which  bloody  fingers  had  traced  the  words,  *  mart  d  Gtd^ 
zot  I'  —  where  all  was  ruin  and  destruction, — to  hear  the  republic 
solemnly  proclaimed  upon  these  ruins.  Written  lists,  headed  *  Five 
la  Repiibligue  /'  were  pasted  upon  shutters  and  doors  announcing  the 
names  of  the  members  of  the  self-elected  Provisional  Government, 
constituted  *  by  voice  of  the  sovereign  people/  who  had  accepted  their 
awful  task  of  responsibility  with  other  views,  probably.  Now  came 
along,  over  barricades  and  fallen  trees,  an  immense  procession  bearing 
the  broken  throne, — ^now,  again,  masses  of  men  bearing  rags  of  the 
uniforms,  of  the  shirts,  of  the  drawers  of  the  slaughtered  Municipal 
Guards ;  and  drums  were  beat  before  them ;  and  the  firing  and  the 
shouting  were  incessant;  and  broken  snatdies  of  the  Marseillaise 
were  screamed  by  thousands  of  voices,  begun  and  never  ended ;  and 
all  was  still  hideous  confusion.  By  niffht  the  illumination  of  joy  and 
enthusiasm,  as  it  was  called,  illumined  the  same  or  similar  scenes. 
That  night,  and  the  next  morning  all  was  anarchy ;  the  troops  were 
all  disarmed — the  people  of  all  classes  armed  to  the  teeth :  there  was 
no  restrictive  force,  no  police,  no  government^  no  laws.  The  firmg  in 
the  air  was  Incessant  throughout  the  whole  night ;  and  a  thousand  con- 
jectures were  made  as  to  the  work  of  destruction  that  was  going  on. 

The  extraordinarily  vigorous  measures  of  the  Provisional  Govern- 
ment in  restoring  order  when  wild  bands  were  ravaging,  pillaging, 
and  burning  in  the  country  round,  and  threatening  the  safety  of  the 
capital,  and  the  untirine  zeal  of  the  National  Guards  to  the  same  end, 
after  their  untoward  deed  was  done,  have  now  restored  its  usual 
aspect  to  the  capital :  scarcely  anything  now  remains  of  the  devasta- 
tion and  riot  but  the  blackened  walls  of  the  Palais  Royal  and  the 
shattered  windows  of  the  Tuileries.  With  a  gloomy  and  doubtful 
future  the  Flaneur  has  nothing  to  do :  he  has  attempted  to  do  no 
more  than  give  a  few  vague  sketches  of  some  of  the  most  stirring 
scenes  of  those  three  davs,  that  have  changed  the  destinies  of  France 
and  shaken  the  fabric  of  European  society. 


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431 
PRINCE    METTERNICH. 

WITH   A   PORTRAIT. 

Prinor  Mrttbrnioh  was  born  at  Coblens  on  the  15th  of  May« 
1773.  Like  his  father,  he  commenced  public  life  as  a  diplomatist* 
at  the  Congress  of  Rastadt,  and  crowned  his  brilliant  career  in  that 
capacity  at  the  Congpress  of  Vienna,  where  he  presided  over  kings* 
pnnces,  and  statesmen  of  every  cast,  and  of  almost  every  shade  of 
character. 

Perhaps  no  statesman  ever  had  a  more  perverse  fate  to  contend 
with  than  Prince  Mettemich.  At  the  dawn  of  his  official  career  he 
found  a  system  which  the  Emperor  Francis  had  been  labouring  to 
construct  for  twenty  years  upon  the  ruins  of  the  great  work  of 
reform  which  had  been  commenced  by  his  predecessor,  Joseph  II. 
Anterior  to  the  time  of  the  latter  monarch,  the  authority  of  the 
Austrian  Emperors  was  absolute  only  in  name ;  it  was  directed  or 
restrained  at  everv  turn  by  a  dominant  aristocracy;  and  Joseph, 
with  the  same  political  sagacity  as  our  Henry  VII.,  endeavoured  to 
neutralize  their  Influence  by  creating  a  rival  power  to  it  in  the 
people.  The  people,  however,  were  not  ripe  in  his  day  for  a  revolt 
under  the  imperial  banner  against  their  feudal  oppressors,  whose 
legislative  veto  was  as  conclusive  as  that  of  the  tribunes  of  Rome  ; 
and  the  utmost  that  he  could  effect  was  to  centralize  in  his  own  per- 
son the  supreme  administration  of  the  state.  This  enabled  him  to 
do  much  for  the  amelioration  and  improvement  of  his  subjects; 
but,  unhappily,  the  same  machinery  which,  in  his  hands,  contributed 
so  largely  to  the  elevation  of  the  masses,  was  equally  available  for 
their  degradation  in  the  hands  of  his  successor.  The  policy  which 
Francis  pursued  with  ever- increasing  vigour  during  a  reign  of  more 
than  forty  years,  is  easily  explained  by  the  circumstances  which 
signalized  his  accession.  He  ascended  the  throne  in  1792,  when 
the  spirit  of  revolution  was  in  the  full  fury  of  its  terrible  course,  and 
his  reign  was  inaugurated  by  a  declaration  of  those  principles  of 
conservatism  and  reaction,  which  no  defeat  could  compel  him  to 
abandon,  no  victory  induce  him  to  relax.  His  policy  was  not 
merely  a  policy  of  resistance,  but  of  aggression,  as  it  regarded  his 
own  subjects ;  and  the  co-operation  of  such  discordant  spirits  in  his 
service  as  Mettemich  and  Kolowrat  is  a  sufficient  proof  that  he  was 
in  reality  the  master  of  both.  His  uncompromising  obstinacy  was 
alike  deaf  to  necessity  and  reason ;  and  Mettemich  had  little  more 
to  do,  while  he  lived,  than  to  act  as  the  exponent  of  his  views  and 
the  executor  of  his  designs.  It  has  been  justly  remarked,  that  the 
reign  of  Prince  Mettemich  only  began  on  the  day  of  bis  old  master's 
death. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  what  course  Mettemich  would  have  chosen 
had  the  initiation  of  an  administrative  policy  been  led  to  him  at  first; 
but  it  is  quite  clear  that  he  must  in  his  heart  have  condemned  the 
system  in  which  it  was  his  fate  to  be  involved.  He  foretold  its  in- 
evitable ruin,  though  he  fondly  hoped  that  it  would  last  as  long  as 
himself.  "  A/ler  me — the  deluge,"  he  was  wont  to  exclaim ;  and  we 
cannot  conceive  that  a  man,  who  was  haunted  by  such  a  melancholy 

VOL.  XXIII.  K  K 


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432  PRINCE  METTERNICH. 

conviction,  would  not  have  retraced  his  steps,  if  he  could  have  done 
so  with  safety.  When  Francis  died,  it  must  be  recollected  that  the 
Prince  had  l>een  occupied  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  in  forging 
fetters  for  his  country,  and  that  the  heavier  they  became,  the  more 
terrible  would  be  the  rebound  of  the  victims  when  liberated  firom 
their  pressure.  To  stand  still  was  impossible, — to  recede  would  have 
been  instant  destruction ;  and  he  had,  therefore,  no  choice  bat  to 
postpone  the  catastrophe  as  a  legacy  for  his  successor.  He  never 
expected  that  the  svstem  would  survive^  and,  indeed,  after  the  French 
Revolution  of  1830,  the  same  ominous  presentiment  struck  a  panic 
into  the  heart  of  the  old  Emperw  himself.  He  wandered  about  the 
castle  of  Schonbrun  groaning  '*  Alles  ut  verloren," — all  is  lost;  and 
for  the  last  three  years  of  his  life  trembled  at  the  thought  of  signing 
a  decree  I  And  yet,  the  ruling  passion  for  enslaving  his  people  was 
strong  in  death.  When  his  will  was  opened^  it  was  found  that  he 
had  left  four  hundred  thousand  florins  for  the  re-establishment  of 
the  order  of  Jesuits  throughout  the  empire. 

The  power  of  Mettemich  was  now  uncontrolled ;  and  it  is  from 
this  date  that  his  undivided  responsibility  begins.  Hitherto  he  had 
been  only  the  unscrupulous  minister  of  another's  will ;  now  he  was 
to  originate  everything  mopraprio  tnatu.  But,  unfortunatdy,  he  waa 
too  deeply  pledged  to  the  old  policy  of  repression  to  be  a  £ree  agent 
in  this  crisis  of  his  destiny.  By  his  Machiavelian  arts  he  had  en- 
slaved, not  only  his  own  country,  but  the  whole  German  family. 
The  Germanic  Ck>nfederation/  wldch  bad  held  out  constitutional 
liberty  to  the  people^  was,  under  his  auspices,  perverted  into  a  con- 
federacy of  sovereign  powers  to  oppress  them.  If  Hungary,  or  the 
Tvrol^  were  enfranchised^  every  state^  from  the  Rhine  to  me  frontiers 
of  Russia  would  rise,  and  demand  to  participate  in  the  boon.  Thirty- 
five  nrinces  were  bound  by  a  solemn  covenant  to  asast  each  other  la 
withholding  from  their  subjects  the  liberty  of  free  discussion,  and 
the  privilege  of  popular  representation ;  and  the  slightest  oonoesrion 
by  the  great  head  of  that  confederacy  of  potentates  would  be  the 
signal  for  universal  innovation.  In  fact,  Mettemich  clearly  saw  that 
matters  had  been  carried  too  far  to  admit  of  any  endurable  compro- 
mise between  the  people  and  their  rulers,  and  that  reform^  instead  of 
conciliating  the  former,  would  only  be  the  first  step  to  a  general 
revolution. 

Under  a  different  monarch.  Prince  Mettemich  would  probably 
have  been  a  very  different  statesman.  No  diplmnatist  has  oisplayed 
in  modern  times  more  tact  and  address  in  accomplishing  his  object ; 
but  the  utmost  praise  we  can  bestow  upon  hkn  is,  that  few  have  sur- 
passed him  in  executing  the  conceptions  of  hia  employer.  Francis 
was  a  king  who  rarely  consulted,  and  never  trusted,  any  one.  The 
functions  of  his  servants  were  purely  ministerial ;  and  he  seldom  in- 
dulged them  in  the  exercise  of  the  higher  prerogative  of  advisers. 
Under  Joseph  the  Second,  Prince  Mettemich  would  have  been  the 
ablest  homme  du  progrSs  of  his  time,  and  even  under  the  present  Em- 
peror Ferdinand,  he  might  have  been  a  conciliating  reformer,  if  he 
had  not  found  it  impossible  to  abandon  the  system  whidi  he  bad 
been  so  long  engaged  in  maturing  to  a  fatal  perfection.  How  strong- 
ly he  felt  the  necessity  of  adhering  to  it  is  evident  from  the  line  of 
conduct  he  adopted  respecting  Francis's  legacy  to  the  Jesuits.  Fer- 
dinand^ as  well  as  the  Archdukes  Charles  and  John,  detested  the 


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PBINCE  METTBRNICH.  433 

Order,  and  the  people,  and  the  regular  dergy  also,  held  them  in 
aversion.  But  Mettemidi,  although  there  was  very  little  bigotry  in 
his  composition,  felt  that  the  Jesuits  would  be  o£  important  service 
to  the  state  noliey,  which  had  been  persevered  in  so  long  that  it  was 
impracticable  to  substitute  for  it  any  other  principle  of  government, 
without  risking  a  convulsion ;  and,  with  the  support  of  the  empress- 
mother,  he  compelled  bis  reluctant  sovereign  to  establish  the  brother- 
hood, in  conformity  with  the  will  of  his  deceased  parent  It  was  to 
them  that  he  entrusted  the  education  of  the  people,  in  the  hope  of 
their  checking  the  liberal  tendencies  of  the  age,  and  counteracting 
the  propagandism  of  liberty  by  the  propagandism  of  superstition. 
He  cared  little,  indeed,  for  the  religious  doctrines  which  they 
preached,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  consent  to  their  banishment 
from  court ;  but  the  political  doctrine  of  Divine  right,  which  they 
drew  as  a  corollary  from  obedience  to  GM,  as  essential  and  indispen- 
sable to  the  popuUur  endurance  of  a  despotism,  was  the  keystone  of 
his  policy.  And  hence,' while  the  cabinet  of  Vienna  repudiated  all 
allegiance  to  Rome,  the  people  of  Austria  were  more  roughly  ridden 
by  her  priests  than  any  other  country  in  Europe,  not  excepting  Ire- 
land itsel£ 

In  short,  it  was  the  misfortune  of  Metternich,  that  in  the  early 
part  of  his  career  an  arbitrary  government  was  the  only  government 
which  the  head  of  the  state  would  permit ;  and,  in  his  later  years, 
the  only  government  which  was  possible  without  entirely  revolution- 
ising the  empire.  The  fetters,  too,  which  it  cost  the  prince  years  of 
deliberation,  and  debate,  and  intrigue,  to  rivet  upon  the  communi- 
ties of  Germany,  under  the  false  pretences  of  binding  them  together 
in  a  bond  of  national  unity,  crippled  his  own  motions  as  well  as 
theirs,  and  the  Austrian  government  was  compelled  to  sacrifice  the 
same  popular  attachment  and  support  which  it  persuaded  others  to 
repudiate.  It  was  a  monstrous  error,  too,  on  the  part  of  Metternich, 
to  create  a  sjrmpath^  between  the  Austrian  provinces  and  the  Ger- 
man states,  by  subjecting  them  to  a  common  oppression ;  for  the 
latter  were  far  more  combustible  than  the  former,  and  should  the 
flames  burst  out  in  the  one,  they  would  be  sure  to  extend  to  the 
other.  When,  by  the  final  act  of  the  Confederation,  it  was  resolved 
that, ''  since  the  German  Confederation  consists  of  sovereign  princes, 
it  follows,  firom  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  that  the  whole  power  of 
the  state  must  remain  undivided  in  the  head  of  the  state ;  and  that 
no  representative  constitution  can  be  allowed  to  bind  the  sovereign 
to  the  oo-operadon  of  the  estates,"— when  Austria  succeeded  in  thus 
assimilating  the  condition  of  every  German  community  to  her  own 
naked  despotism,  she  procured  thirty  millions  of  allies  for  her  own 
discontented  subjects  at  home.  And  yet  she  could  not  avoid  this 
step ;  it  had  been  rendered  inevitable  by  the  measures  which  bad 
preceded  it  since  the  peace  of  1815,  and  retreat  became  daily  more 
difficult,  until  it  was  entirely  out  of  the  question.  Metternich,  in 
short,  from  the  first  day  he  entered  into  the  service  of  Francis,  was 
involved  in  a  war  against  the  natural  tendency  of  things,  and  we  have 
seen  that  he  was  himself  sensible  of  the  hopeless  struggle  in  which 
was  engaged. 

It  has  been  said,  that  the  fallen  statesman  should  have  recognized 
in  the  final  overthrow  of  Napoleon  the  advent  of  a  critical  epoch, 
and  that,  when  he  abandoned  the  obsolete  fiction  of  the  Hapsburghs 

K  K  2 


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434  PRINCE  METTERNICH. 

representing  the  Imperial  dynasty  of  the  Caesars,  he  should  have 
given  to  the  substantive  empire  which  still  remained  to  the  House 
of  Austria  an  organization  which  would  have  harmonized  with  the 
ideas  of  the  new  era  which  was  then  dawning  upon  Europe.  But, 
supposing  him  to  have  possessed  the  greatness  of  mind  required  for 
the  conception  of  such  a  plan,  what  power  did  he  possess  over  the 
discordant  elements  of  the  empire  for  its  execution  ?  What  were 
the  materials  with  which  he  was  to  reconstruct,  what  the  founda- 
tion upon  which  he  was  to  base,  a  regenerated  empire?  Austria, 
Bohemia,  Hungary,  Italy, — ^the  very  catalogue  of  its  parts  suggests 
at  once  the  impossibility  of  their  assimilation.  Separated  from  each 
other  by  differences  in  language,  manners,  traditions,  and  all  that 
constitutes  the  moral  character  and  force  of  nations,  by  what  arts 
would  it  have  been  practicable  to  amalgamate  them  permanently 
together  ?  Their  discordance,  which  rendered  it  just  possible  to  go- 
vern them  by  an  imperial  despotism,  like  that  of  Austria,  at  the 
same  time  rendered  it  impossible  to  govern  them  by  an  imperial  con- 
stitution like  that  of  Great  Britain.  The  tact  of  a  Metternich  might 
be  able  to  keep  all  in  subjection  for  a  time  by  the  Machiavelian 
prescription, — gouverner  I'une  par  les  autres y^^hnt  the  Abb^  Sieyes 
himself  could  not  have  invented  a  plausible  scheme  for  embracing 
them  all  within  the  pale  of  a  constitution  which  should  have  the 
merits  of  centralization  and  unity.  We  in  England  have  been 
taught  what  a  difficult  problem  this  is  to  solve  satisfactorily,  by  our 
own  experience  of  Ireland ;  and  how  much  more  difficult  must  it 
hav^  been  for  Austria,  with  not  one  Ireland,  but  half  a  dozen  Ire- 
lands,  to  reconcile,  not  only  with  the  central  power  of  the  empire, 
but  with  each  other ! 

We  should  not,  perhaps,  blame  Prince  Metternich  so  severely,  if 
we  candidly  considered  the  circumstances  of  which  he  was  the  crea. 
ture.  The  ordre  actuel  to  which  a  man  is  born,  be  it  what  it  may, 
has  some  claim  upon  his  respect  and  attachment ;  and  the  imme- 
diate mischief  which  is  inseparable  from  every  change,  is  some 
apology  for  conservatism  under  every  regime.  Moreover,  men  have 
not  the  same  opportunities  of  free  action  under  despotic,  as  under 
constitutional  governments ;  under  the  former  there  is  no  medium 
between  loyalty  and  disaffection ;  where  there  is  no  representation 
there  is  no  merely  political  opposition ;  and  he  who  would  serve  his 
country  at  all,  must  be  content  to  serve  it  in  the  spirit  of  its  ruling 
power.  Making  these  allowances  for  his  position,  Prince  Metter- 
nich must  foe  considered  as  a  finished  specimen  of  the  statesmanship 
and  diplomacy  of  an  age  which  has  passed  away.  His  bearing  was 
always  noble,  without  hauteur,  and  courteous,  without  servility ; 
and  while  his  dexterity  in  negotiation  is  universally  admitted,  no 
one  has  ever  charged  him  with  chicanery.  Above  all,  he  was  a 
man  of  peace,  and  never  endangered  the  repose  of  the  world  by 
encroaching  upon  the  weakness  of  his  neighbours,  like  too  many  of 
the  Russian  school,  nor  by  unworthy  intrigues,  like  too  many  of  the 
French. 

Of  his  qualities  as  a  statesman,  let  our  readers  judge ;  we  have 
endeavoured  to  supply  them  with  the  best  of  materials  for  so  doing. 


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435 
THE  CAREER  OF  M.  GUIZOT. 

BY  JAMBS   WABD. 

Thb  career  of  M.  Guizot>  the  kamme  (P^iai,  has  closed.  A  deluge 
has  swept  him  away^  and  left  not  a  wreck  behind  of  the  state  of 

things  with  which  he  was  associated.     He  belongs  to  another  era 

to  a  former  age  of  the  world<^^-as  much  as  Wolsey,  SuHy,  or  Sejanus. 
He  and  his  system  are  alike  extinct.  The  workman  and  his  work 
have  disappeared  together ;  and,  therefore,  in  giving  a  study  of  his 
life,  we  shall  not  be  charged  with  prematurely  intruding  into  the 
province  of  posthumous  history. 

Francois  Fierre  Gillaume  Ouizot,  the  last'prime-minister  of  Louis, 
ex-king  of  the  French,  was  bom  at  Nimes,  on  October  4th,  1787. 
His  fauier,  Andr^Francois  Guizot,  was  a  distinguished  member  of 
the  bar  at  Nimes,  and,  like  nearly  the  whole  body  of  the  legal  pro- 
fession throughout  France,  entertained  a  bitter  hostility  to  the  old 
regime,  which  denied  them  the  social  rank  and  political  influence  to 
which  they  were  entitled  by  their  intelligence  and  wealth.  When, 
therefore,  the  revolutionary  spirit  broke  loose  in  1789,  the  elder 
Guizot  threw  himself  into  the  stream  which,  instead  of  bearing  him 
to  the  new  Utopia  of  "  Liberty,  Equality,  and  Fraternity,"  was  only 
to  land  him,  like  so  many  other  patriots  and  adventurers,  visionaries 
and  charlatans,  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold.  He  was  guillotined  on 
the  8th  of  April,  1794,  when  the  subject  of  this  memoir  was  only  six 
years  and  six  months  old. 

The  Guizots  were  a  protestant  family,  and  in  1799  Madame 
Guizot*  retired  to  Geneva  for  the  purpose  of  affording  her  sons — ^for 
she  had  two— a  sound  religious  and  learned  education.  Of  the 
elder  (M.  Guizot),  we  learn,  that  he  not  only  displayed  a  rare  pre- 
cocity of  talent,  but  that  his  powers  of  application  were  most  extra- 
ordinary. Absorbed  in  the  study  of  some  favourite  or  difficult  work, 
we  are  told  by  M.  Lorain  that  he  was  not  only  imperturbable  to  or- 
dinary interruptions,  but  as  insensible  to  even  the  practical  tortures 
inflicted  upon  him  by  his  schoolfellows,  as  if  he  had  been  actually 
mesmerized  by  the  authors  before  him.  At  thirteen  years  of  age 
he  was  well-grounded  in  Greek,  Latin,  English,  German,  and  Italian, 
and,  after  having  completed  the  usual  courses  of  philosophy, 
history,  and  literature,  he  bade  adieu  to  Geneva  in  1815  to  study  the 
law  at  Paris. 

Many  prophecies  (as  is  generally  the  lot  of  precocious  school- 
boys), were  hazarded  by  the  dons  of  Geneva  about  young  Guizot 
becoming  "  inJalUblement  le  plus  marquant  de  son  ipoque:"  but  in 

*  This  remarkable  woman  has  just  paid  the  debt  of  nature,  having  attained  her 
eighty-third  year.  From  the  commencement  to  the  dose  of  her  eventful  life,  she 
is  said  to  have  cochibited  the  same  rare  qualities  of  mind — firmness  of  purpose,  a 
refined  sense  of  the  beautiful  and  good  in  human  character,  combined  with  a 
soundness  oi  judgment,  which  never  failed  her  in  the  many  critical  epochs  of  her 
life.  Her  affection  for  her  son,  and  her  solicitude  for  his  welfare — from  his  first 
entrance  in  the  arena  of  Geneva  to  his  last  struggles  to  regenerate  his  country — 
were  unbroken  and  unceasing,  and  she  died  with  the  conviction  that,  moraUj/,  he 
was  riffht,  however  poiiHeaIfy  he  might  have  been  wrong  in  the  course  of  policy 
which  he  adopted  for  his  country. 


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436  THE  CAREER  OF  H.  OUIZOT. 

Paris  he  found  himself  suddenly  thrown  into  an  element  alto|gether 
uncongenial^  and  even  revolting  to  his  principles  and  tastes.  To  the 
Reign  of  Terror  had  succeeded  the  Reign  of  Pleasure— or  rather  of 
the  most  abandoned  debauchery — and  society  had  not  yet  passed 
through  this  last  phase  of  its  moral  revolution^  which  must  have 
been  more  frightful  to  the  austere  and  religious  student  than  even 
the  horrible  internecine  struggles  which  preceded  it.  He  fell  into  a 
deep  melancholy,  with  which  he  struggled  for  some  time  in  vain ; 
but,  at  last,  by  a  strong  effort  of  the  will,  he  forced  himself  into  the 
world  of  letters  and  science,  where  he  fortunately  contracted  an  in- 
timacy with  the  venerable  M.  Staffer,  who  had  fbrmeriy  represented 
the  Swiss  Confederation  in  France.  At  the  country-house  df  this 
gentleman,  M.  Ouizot  probably  passed  the  two  happiest  years  of  his 
fife  (1807  and  1808),  extending  the  range  of  his  former  philosophi- 
cal studies  under  the  guidance  of  his  able  and  amiable  host.  It  was 
here,  too,  that  he  formed  an  acquaintance  with  M.  Seward  (the  pro- 
prietor of  the  *'  Publidste"),  which  led  to  his  odd  romance,  and 
eventual  marriage,  with  the  clever  Pauline  de  Meulan.  Mademoi- 
selle Meulan  was  an  important  contributor  to  the  "  Publidste,"  and 
in  1807  was  suffering  under  intense  uneasiness  fVom  the  consdous- 
ness  that  her  declining  health  peremptorily  required  at  least  a  sus^ 
pension  of  her  literary  labours.  In  this  dilemma  she  received  an 
offer  from  *'  un  talent  inconnu,  mats  plein  de  dSwmement"  to  supply 
her  place  for  a  season ;  and  the  rare  ability  of  the  articles  forwarded 
by  the  mysterious  '^  friend  in  need  "  secured  their  ready  acceptance. 
Oreat  was  the  curiosity  amongst  M.  Seward's  coterie  as  to  who  the 
unknown  contributor  could  be ;  every  artifice  was  tried  to  strip  him 
of  his  incognito,  but  in  vain,  until  at  last.  Mademoiselle  Meulan  threat- 
ened to  include  him  amongst  the  vulgar  herd  of  correspondents  whose 
contributions  are  rejected,  "  unless  accompanied  by  a  real  name  and 
address."  This  extorted  the  soft  confession  from  the  grave  young 
gentleman — iiL  Ouizot — who,  with  a  grave  and  demure  countenance, 
had  all  along  affected  to  have  been  as  much  puzzled,  and  to  have 
been  as  anxious  (perhaps  he  was),  for  an  Sclatrcissemeni  as  the  lady 
herself.  From  that  time  M.  Ouizot  made  love  after  the  fashion  of 
ordinary  men,  and,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  he  married  Mademoi- 
selle Aieulan,  who  was  fourteen  years  his  senior.  The  marriage 
proved  a  happy  one.  Alluding  to  it  nine  years  after,  he  writes  to  a 
friend — ^'Je  remercie  Dieu  de  mon  bonheur ;  je  stds  du  petii  nombre 
de  ceux  que  la  vie  n'a  point  trompil"  Alas!  can  he  say  this  now  ? 
In  after  life  M.  Ouizot  owed  much  of  his  ambition  to  the  support  he 
found  in  this  really  admirable  woman.  She  died  in  1827,  and  we 
hardly  know  a  more  pleasing  picture  of  a  death-bed  than  the  brief 
sketch  of  Madame  Ouizot's  by  Pascallet.  "On  the  30th  of  July, 
she  bade  a  tranquil  and  tender  farewell  to  her  husband  and  family. 
The  next  day  she  requested  M.  Ouizot  to  read  to  her.  He  first  read 
to  her  a  letter  from  Fenelon  to  a  sick  person.  He  then  began  the 
sermon  of  Bossuet  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul — as  he  finished  it 
she  breathed  her  last ! " 

It  was  in  1809  that  M.  Ouizot  made  his  first  appearance  as  an 
author,  in  the  course  of  which  he  published  his  '*  JNew  Universal 
Dictionary  of  French  Synonymes,"  and  the  preface  to  the  first  volume 
of  "  The  Lives  of  the  French  PoeU  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV."  In 
1811  he  produced  "  The  Sute  of  the  Fine  Arts  in  France,"  &c.,  and 


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THE  CABBER  OF   M.  GUIZOT.  437 

the  first  number  of ''  The  Annals  of  Education/'  which  he  continued 
until  1815;  in  addition  to  which  he  contributed  largely  to  the 
"Publldste,"  to  the  "Archives  Litteraires/'  and  the  ''Journal  de 
r£nipire/'  and  other  periodical  works.  In  the  meanwhile,  M.  de 
Fontane  procured  for  him  the  professorship  of  history  to  the  Faculty 
of  Letters,  and  this  appointment  led  to  the  lasting  friendship  which 
subsisted  between  himself  and  M.  Royer  CoUard,  who  had  been 
selected  professor  of  philosophy  some  time  earlier. 

Although  M.  Guizot  took  little  or  no  interest  in  public  affairs 
under  the  Empire,  he  never  attempted  to  conceal  his  political 
opinions.  His  "  family  connection/'  if  it  may  be  so  termed,  with  the 
revolution  was  well  known,  and,  throughout  all  his  philosophical 
and  literary  works,  although  there  was  no  declamatory  liberalism, 
there  breathed  a  spirit  which  was  quite  as  hostile  to  Imperial  as  to 
Democratic  oppression.  When  he  was  appointed  to  tne  chair  of 
history,  his  patron,  De  Fontane,  suggested  to  him  the  necessity  of 
introducing  something  complimentary  to  Napoleon  in  his  inaugural 
address ;  but  this  was  a  necessity  to  which  he  would  not  consent  to 
sacrifice  his  convictions  in  favour  of  a  constitutional  monarchy. 
Napoleon  took  no  notice  of  the  slight ;  but  the  legitimists  did  not 
fail  to  remember  it  afterwards,  and  to  attribute  it  to  a  sour  efferves- 
cence of  the  old  revolutionary  leaven. 

AiWr  the  first  Restoration,  the  Abbe  de  Montesquieu  became  Mi« 
nister  of  the  Interior,  and  M.  Ouisot,  by  the  recommendation  of  his 
friend  Royer  Collard,  was  appointed  secretary-general  to  that  im- 
portant department.  History  will  certainly  record  of  him,  as  a  pub- 
lic man,  that  he  always  laboured  under  the  disadvantage  of  being 
ftdsunderttood — a  disadvantage  which  would  seem  to  be  an  inevitable 
incident  to  such  a  double  game  as  ''  Progris  et  en .  mhne  tempt  re- 
eittance."  From  the  first  to  Uie  last  scene  of  his  public  life,  he  has 
uniformly  found  himself  in  this  unfortunate  position,  and  in  every 
instance  he  has  chosen  the  position  ^Umself,  with  the  view  of  illus- 
trating  an  administrative  principle  which  neither  party  would  en- 
deavour to  comprehend.  This  is  the  secret  key  to  nis  policy.  The 
first  political  character  in  which  he  appeared  was  as  a  liberal,  Pro- 
testant secretary  to  a  counter-revolutionary.  Catholic  member  of  the 
cabinet.  How  could  he  expect  that  the  counter-revolutionary  part^ 
would  regard  him  as  anything  better  than  an  interloper  ?  or  the  li- 
beral party  as  anything  better  than  a  deserter  ?  And  yet  he  was 
neither.  The  government  sought  him  with  the  intention  of  con- 
ciliating the  liberals,  and  he,  on  the  other  hand,  consented  tq  attach 
himself  to  the  government  with  the  hope  of  retarding  the  retro- 
grade policy  of  the  royalists.  In  short,  M.  Gtuzot  has  always  con- 
trived to  place  himself  in  an  ambiguous  situation,  and  to  adopt  prin- 
ciples of  action  which  he  always  found  it  a  difficult,  or  delicate 
matter  to  explain. 

On  the  return  of  Napoleon  from  Elba,  M.  Guizot  withdrew  alto- 
gether from  public  affairs,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  duties  of  his 
professorship.  His  retirement,  however,  was  not  doomed  to  be  a 
long  one.  Towards  the  end  of  May  the  solution  that  would  be 
given  to  the  great  problem  of  the  re-establishment  of  the  Empire 
was  obvious.  That  Napoleon  should  be  able  to  resist  the  gigantic 
forces  that  were  about  to  rush  upon  him  fVom  every  quarter  of  Eu- 
rope, was  almost  a  physical  impossibility ;  and  the  moral  certainty 


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438  THE  CAREER  OF   M.  QUIZOT. 

was  just  as  great  that  the  Bourbons  would  return^  stronger  and 
more  intolerant  than  ever.  That  France,  nevertheless,  would  defi- 
nitively settle  down  under  a  Bourbon  despotism,  though  the  bayonets 
of  all  Europe  were  at  her  breast,  was  an  idea  which  perhaps  none 
but  the  most  grasping  royalists  entertained ;  and  we  can  easily  con- 
ceive that  such  men  as  MM.  Guizot,  Koyer  Collard,  &c.  should  have 
shuddered,  not  more  at  the  thought  of  such  a  despotism,  than  at  the 
inevitable  consequences  of  it.  Louis  XVIII.  was  then  at  Ghent, 
and  from  the  tone  of  the  *'  Moniteur  de  Gand,"  which  had  been  esta^- 
blished  there  as  the  official  organ  of  the  fugitive  djmasty,  it  was 
evident  that  the  royalists  were  much  more  intent  upon  recompens- 
ing themselves  for  the  misfortunes,  than  upon  amending  the  errors 
of  the  past  In  this  critical  state  of  things,  we  think  wat  it  was  a 
courageous,  a  patriotic  and  a  prudent  step  on  the  part  of  the  con- 
stitutional party  in  France,  to  tender  Louis  XVIII.  good  advice, 
while  his  precarious  situation  might  render  him  accessible  to  it ; 
and  yet,  under  what  an  embarrassing  cloud  of  misconceptions  and 
imputations  did  M.  Guizot  labour  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  be- 
cause his  self-imposed  mission  to  Ghent  was  a  step  which  for  some 
reason,  did  not  admit  of  an  earlier  explanation. 

M.  Guizot  was  only  provoked  into  an  explanation  of  it  at  last,  on 
the  25th  November,  1840,  and  we  cannot  do  better  than  give  it  in 
his  own  words :— - 

*'  Injurious  calumnies  have  been  prodigally  heaped  upon  me  in 
reference  to  that  affair.  I  will  explain  it  at  last.  Yes,  I  was  at 
Ghent :  I  was, — not  directly  after  the  20th  of  March  in  the  suite  of 
Louis  XVIII.^ — not  as  an  emigrant,  not  to  quit  my  country,  but  to 
serve  it. 

'*  It  was  in  the  name  of  the  constitutional  royalists,  in  the  inte- 
rests of  the  constitutional  party,  in  that  of  the  Charter,  and  to  con- 
nect the  strengthening  and  development  of  the  Charter,  with  the 
probable  return  of  Louis  XVIII.,  that  I  was  at  Ghent." 

After  the  return  of  Louis  XVIII.,  M.  Guizot  was  appointed 
secretary-general  to  the  Minister  of  the  Interior,  but  he  retired  with 
Barb^  Marbois,  after  a  short  tenure  of  office,  and  now,  for  the  first 
time,  he  became  a  political  author.  In  1816  he  pubh'shed  a  treatise 
upon  «' Representative  Government  and  the  actual  condition  of 
France,"  as  an  antidote  to  the  anti-revolutionary  doctrines  of  Vi- 
troUes ;  and  this  was  shortly  afterwards  followed  by  an  essay  '*  On  the 
History  and  the  actual  condition  of  Public  Instruction  in  France." 
The  latter  work  was  intended  to  expose  an  attempt  by  the  high 
Catholic  party  to  revolutionise  public  instruction  in  France,  bv  con- 
sidering it ''  non  pas  religieuse,  mais  supersiitieuse, — non  pas  jorte  et 
morale,  mais  asservie  aux  plus  miser aoles  prejugSs,"  and  no  doubt 
paved  his  way,  in  a  subsequent  stage  of  his  career,  to  the  Ministry 
of  Public  Instruction,  which  he  more  than*  once  filled  (however 
much  his  policy  in  other  respects  might  be  questioned)  with  the 
unqualified  approbation  of  all  disinterested  men. 

Though  M.  Guizot  was  neither  a  member  of  the  government,  nor 
even  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  for  some  years^  several  important 
constitutional  reforms  were  originated  and  carried  by  the  pturti-doC' 
trinaire,  of  which,  with  Royer  Collard,  Camille  Jourdain,  and 
others,  he  was  the  life  and  soul.  In  1817  the  law  was  passi^  for 
equalizing  the  votes  of  electors^  much  to  the  consternation  of  the 


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THE   CAREER  OF   M.  GUIZOT.  439 

democracy,  as  well  as  to  the  old  aristocracy.  This  law  at  once 
threw  the  representation  of  the  country  into  the  hands  of  the  middle 
classes,  and  was  therefore  as  little  palatable  to  the  one  extreme 
party  as  to  the  other.  So  great  indeed  was  their  combined  clamour 
against  it,  that  M.  Laisne,  Minister  of  the  Interior,  was  persuaded 
that  the  mere  presentation  of  the  law  to  the  Chambers  would  be  the 
downfall  of  the  Ministry.  M.  Guizot  was  called  in,  and  defended 
the  project  of  the  law  with  such  ability,  that  M.  Laisne  engaged  to 
propose  it  if  M.  Guizot  would  indite  a  speech  for  him  to  accompany 
It.    M.  Guizot  did  so,  and  the  law  was  carried. 

M.  Sarrans  assures  us,  that  the  revolution  of  1830  had  been  con. 
templated  many  years  before,  .and  that  Lafitte  had  seriously  enter- 
tained it  in  181 7>  the  year  when  M.  Guizot's  electoral  law  was 
proposed.  Be  tlds  as  it  may,  the  seeds  of  that  revolution  were  cer- 
tainly sown  then  in  this  law,  for  it  rendered  it  impossible  for  the 
government  to  be  carried  on  with  any  degree  of  comfort  by  a  Mi- 
nistry subservient  only  to  the  Court,  and  it  was  the  violation  of  this 
law  by  the  Polignac  Ministry  which  at  last  precipitated  the  down- 
fall of  the  King.  The  Court,  in  j&ct,  soon  aiscovered  the  tnconve- 
nience  of  thct  law,  and  longed  for  some  reaction  which  would  justify 
reprisals  upon  its  authors.  The  assassination  of  the  Due  de  Berri 
in  February  1820,  afforded  the  wished-for  opportunity.  Camille 
Jourdain,  Royer  CoUard,  De  Barante,  &c.  were  disgraced  by  being 
dismissed  from  the  Council  of  State,  and  M.  Guizot  followed  them, 
very  prudently  declining  to  carry  along  with  him  the  additional 
insult  of  a  pension. 

At  this  time  M.  Guizot  seems  to  have  set  to  work  in  right  earnest, 
to  write  the  ultra- royalists  down.  In  1821,  in  his  brochure  "  Des 
Conspirations  et  de  la  Justice  Publique,"  he  exposed  the  atrocious 
policy  of  a  government,  "  qui  suscitalt  des  conspirations  pour  ex- 
ploiter;"  and  this  he  followed  by  a  very  able  explanation  of  the  true 
policy  of  the  opposition,  "  des  Movens  de  Gouvernement  et  d'Oppo- 
sition  dans  I'etat  actuel  de  la  France."  Afterwards,  he  came  to 
still  closer  quarters  with  the  Government,  in  the  brochure  "  Du 
Gouvernement  de  la  France  et  du  Ministere  actuel." 

The  political  pamphleteering,  however,  of  M.  Guizot, — fortunately 
for  genuine  literature, — was  abruptly  brought  to  a' close.  In  1822, 
the  government  removed  him  from  his  chair  at  the  Sorbonne,  under 
the  pretence  that  he  made  his  lectures  a  vehicle  for  liberalism.  So 
far  from  resenting  this  tyrannical  act,  to  the  astonishment  of  every 
one,  M.  Guizot  retired  altogether  from  the  field  of  political  dis- 
cussion. 

The  long  absence  of  M.  Guizot  from  political  polemics,  which 
followed  his  expulsion  from  the  Sorbonne,  has  been  attributed  by 
many  to  a  prophetic  forecast  of  the  storm  which  was  in  a  few  years 
to  sweep  away  the  dynasty  of  the  Bourbons,  and  to  the  anxiety  with 
which  this  presentiment  inspired  him  for  the  completion  of  those  great 
historical  works  upon  which  his  mind  had  been  long  engaged,  while 
the  temporary  calm  still  permitted  him  leisure  and  repose.  But 
nowhere  in  his  writings  up  to  this  time,  and  still  less  in  any  part  of 
his  public  policy,  do  we  find  a  warrant  for  this  compliment  to  his 
powers  of  penetration.  When  M.  Guizot  perceived  a  revolution 
stealing  upon  the  country,  his  conduct  during  the  last  five  years  can 
leave  us  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  direction  in  which  the  '<  double  ac- 


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440  THE  CAREER  OF  M.  OUIZOT. 

tion"  of  his  prmoiples, — progrSi  eten  mSme  iemps  retutoiu^^woald 
have  been  exerted.  But  it  is  evident^  moreover^  that  not  only  did 
M.  Qiiisot  in  1822  not  anticipate  a  revolution^  but  that  he  felt  as- 
sured that  France  no  longer  presented  the  social  antagonism  neces- 
sary to  produce  one.  Contrasting  the  then  state  of  society  in  France 
with  that  which  rendered  a  revolution  not  only  possible,  but  inevi- 
table and  irresistible,  in  17B9>  he  says  in  his  brochure  "Dvl  CKmi- 
veraement  de  la  France  et  du  Ministere  actuel,"  '^  La  RevolutioQ 
de'B9  a,  trouve  en  France  deux  peuples ;  la  Fnmce  nouvc^e  n'en 
vaut  plus  qu'un," 

But,  whatever  might  have  been  the  motive  which  withdrew  M. 
Guizot  for  six  years  fVom  the  arena  of  politics,  the  world  has  no 
reason  to  complain  of  the  manner  in  which  his  seclusion  was  em- 
ployed. His  collection  of ''  Memoirs  relating  to  the  Histoiy  of  the 
jSngli^  Revolution,"  and  his  history  of  that  Revolution  rrom  the 
accession  of  Charles  I.  to  the  Restoration  of  Charles  II.,  are  noble 
works,  for  which  France  owes  him  every  honour,  and  England  no 
small  gratitude,  as  among  the  first,  if  not  the  very  first,  of  the  his- 
torians whose  names  will  themselves  become  identified  with  the 
history  of  their  own  age.  The  former  work  alone  occupies  twenty- 
six  octavo  volumes;  and  yet  at  the  same  time  he  was  at  work  upon 
his  **  Collections  of  Memoirs  relating  to  the  History  of  France  from 
the  Foundation  of  the  Monarchv  to  the  Thirteenth  Century,"  which 
was  completed  in  thirty-one  volumes;  upon  his  '^ Essays  upon  the 
History  of  France  from  the  Fifth  to  the  Tenth  Century ;"  and  a  new 
edition  of  Mably's  History,  with  a  Critical  Review.  In  short,  in 
these  six  short  years  he  accompli^ed  as  much  as  would  have  been 
the  work  of  a  life-time  for  an  ordinary  author  even  in  the  days  of 
folios;  and  every  page  bears  the  stamp,  not  only  of  indefatigable 
research,  but  of  a  power  of  analvsis  and  comprehension  surpassed, 
perhaps,  by  no  one^  except  the  high-priest  of  histwy, — the  unap- 
proachable Niebuhr. 

It  was  in  the  year  1828  that  M.  Guizot  once  more  resumed  his 
political  action,  by  some  able  contributions  to  the  *'  Olobe."  This 
journal,  which  then  exercised  considerable  influence  upon  the  rising 
generation  in  France,  was  supported  by  the  associated  talents  of  a 
number  of  young  men^  the  disciples  of  M.  Guiaot,—- MM.  Remusat, 
Duchatel,  Duvergier  de  Hauranne,  Dubois,  Montalivet,  Armand 
Carre],  and  others.  It  is  superfluous  to  add,  that  in  such  hands, 
directed  by  such  a  head  as  M,  Guizot's^-Meit  in  one  of  his  progres 
phases— dt  proved  a  formidable  opponent  to  the  Polignae  party,  who 
were  intriguing  with  unscrupulous  activity  to  restore  the  system  of 
ruling  with  '*  the  strong  hand."  The  semi-liberal  minister,  Martig- 
uac,  restored  M.  Guizot  to  his  professor's  chair  at  the  Sorb<mne,  and 
in  the  beginning  of  the  following  year  to  his  seat  in  the  council  of 
state.  Everything,  in  shorty  in£cated  his  speedy  advancement  to  a 
seat  in  the  cabinet,  when  Martignac  himself  fell,  undermined  by  the 
intrigues  we  have  alluded  to,  and  Polignae  seized  the  reins  of  power, 
resolved,  to  use  his  own  exulting  declaration,  ^'gouverner  d  Ui  JVeC 
lingtan."* 

From  this  moment  M.  Guizot  undertook  the  task  of  organizing  an 
eff*eotive  Opposition.    The  constituency  of  Lisieux  (Calvados)  re- 


<*  Le  Globe,"  August  Slit,  1820. 


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THB  CARfi£R  OF  M.  GUIZOT.  441 

turned  faim  to  the  Chamber,  and  he  at  once  took  his  seat  atnong  the 
cenire  gauche.  The  Martignac  party  joined  the  anti-ministerial 
party,  and  Otiizot  carried  the  memorable  address  of  221  in  all  its 
original  boldness,  even  against  the  wishes  of  many  of  his  friends. 
There  can  be  no  doobt  that  he  was  anxious  that  the  demonstration 
should  be,  in  the  first  instance,  as  strong  as  the  spirit  of  the  consti- 
tution would  admit,  lest  it  should  fail  to  produce  the  desired  im- 
pression upon  the  Court.  ''  Let  us  take  care,**  he  warned  the  com- 
mittee, ''not  to  weaken  the  force  of  our  words,  not  to  take  the  pith 
out  of  our  expressions.  It  is  our  duty  to  take  care  that  they  are 
respectful,  but  not  timid  or  doubtfuL  Truth  has  hitherto  found  it 
too  difficult  to  penetrate  into  the  cabinet  of  kings,  that  she  should 
now  be  presented  at  court  trembling  and  pale.  All  that  we  ought 
.to  guard  against  is  the  possibility  of  the  loyaUif  of  our  sentiments  being 
fidsconttrued"  It  is  evident  that  M.  Guizot  at  this  crisis  did  not 
speculate  upon  the  alternative  of  a  revolution. 

The  Court,  however,  was  obstinate.  The  Chambers  were  again 
dissolved,  but  with  worse  results  for  the  government  than  ben>re. 
Then  came  the  memorable  ordinances — ^the  hneute — the  barricades — 
the  bombardments— the  king^s  flight — ^the  provisional  government — 
and — ^Louis  Philippe. 

M.  Guisot  appropriated  the  portfolio  of  Public  Instruction  as  his 
share  in  the  Provisional  Government ;  and  there  can  be  little  doubt 
tfiat  he  supported  Lafitte  in  advocating  the  reconstruction  of  a  new 
constitutional  monarchy,  in  opposition  to  the  republican  tendencies 
of  their  colleagues.  Fortunately,  a  compromise  was  discovered  by 
Lafavette  in  the  "  citiaen  king,"  one  of  those  happy  mots  by  which 
die  destiny  of  France  has  for  a  time  been  so  frequently  decided. 
Did  not  the  paternity  of  it  belong,  pas^  all  question,  to  the  spirituel 
old  Marquis  Lafayette,  we  might  have  supposed  that  M.  Guizot  had 
created  this  hybrid  personification  of  sovereign  power  to  match  his 
own  hvbrid  personincation  of  statesmanship.  How  well  the  idea  of 
a  ''citizen  kmg"  harmonises  with  that  of  a  Minister  "de  progris  et 
en  mime  temps  de  resistance  I "  Any  one  might  have  foretold^  that, 
barring  accident,  M.  Guizot  would  be  the  man  for  Louis  Philippe 
in  the  end* 

Hitherto  M.  Guizot  had  only  filled  a  subordinate  part  in  the 
government ;  but  now  the  chief  direction  and  responsibility  of  it 
were  virtually  assigned  to  him.  The  movement  of  July  had  not  yet 
abated ;  the  pressure  was  all  still  en  progrds,  and  our  homme  d'etat 
of  course  became  V homme  de  resistance,  while,  in  admirable  unison, 
Philippe  the  citizen  was  merged  into  Phih'ppe  the  king.  The  stream, 
however,  was  for  the  present  too  strong  for  them ;  M.  Guizof  s 
resistance  only  broke  the  torrent  without  staying  it,  and  aggravated 
its  brawling  without  diminishing  its  fbrce.  He  was  swept  away, 
and  M.  Lafitte  took  the  helm ;  but  in  less  than  three  months  he 
proved  that  he  was  as  incapable  of  controlling  the  movement  as  M. 
Guizot  had  been  of  arresting  it.  Then  stepped  forward  Casimir 
Perier,  the  only  man,  if  any,  in  France,  who  could  at  that  time  have 
succeeded  in  a  policy  of  repression.  Courteous,  and  yet  decisive ;  a 
scholar  and  a  gentleman,  and  yet  surrounded  (as  the  French  have 
it)  "  with  a  host  of  popular  antecedents,"  much  more  would  have 
been  endured  at  his  hands  by  the  ultra-liberal  and  republican 
parties  than  at  M.  Guizof  s.    The  latter,  indeed,  had  made  bitter 


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442  THE  CASBER  OF  M.  GUIZOT. 

enemies  of  many  of  the  most  able  of  his  former  disciples,  who,  with 
Armsnd  Corel  at  their  head,  pursued  him  with  what  they  deemed 
*'  a  holy"  hatred,  as  an  Iscariot.  M.  Guisot,  therefore,  was  cont^it 
to  see  his  system  carried  out  by  a  man  not  less  able,  and  ftfr  more 
faTOurably  drcurostanced,  than  himself;  and  the  subsequent  coa- 
lition of  the  Carlists  and  Republicans  against  M.  Perier  sufficiently 
indicates  that  he  was  not  unsuccessful  in  imparting  to  the  existing 
order  of  things  a  promise  of  stability  and  predominance.  But  it 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  it  was  to  M.  Guisot  that  M.  Perier  owed 
not  only  a  present  and  personal  suppcnt,  but  the  effective  means  of 
defeating  the  influence  and  repressing  the  violence  of  the  legitimists 
and  democrats  combined.  It  was  not  only  that  during  his  short 
tenure  of  office  in  1830  M.  Guisot  had  organized  the  National 
Guards,  and  thus  armed  the  middle  class  against  invasion  frcnn 
above  or  from  below,  but  it  was  M.  Guisot's  electoral  refcmn  of 
I8I7  which  had  also  given  to  those  classes  the  political  prepon- 
derance which  enabled  them  to  defy  faction  within  the  walls  of  their 
Parliament,  as  well  as  to  put  down  sedition  without. 

Indeed,  it  was  in  the  middle  classes — the  hourgeoine — that  M. 
Guizot,  from  the  first,  sought  his  element  of  resistance.  Five  years 
after  the  time  of  which  we  are  treating,  he  was  taunted  in  the 
Chamber  with  having  been  the  author  of  a  law  to  crush  both  the 
ancient  nobility  and  me  multitude  for  the  aggrandizement  of  those 
classes.  *'  When  the  law  was  under  discussion,"  he  replied,  *'  the 
same  charge  against  it  was  made — ^that  it  would  result  in  the  tri- 
umph, the  definitive  triumph,  in  the  complete  preponderance  of  the 
middle  classes  in  France,  alike  at  the  expense  of  the  dibris  of  the 
ancient  aristocracy  and  gentry,  and  of  the  multitude.  At  that  time 
I  was  neither  a  deputy  nor  an  important  member  of  the  govern^ 
ment;  but  I  defended  the  law  in  the  '  Moniteur'  officially,  as  the 
interpreter  of  the  government,  and  I  defend  it  now,  and  court  the 
reproach  of  it  by  sayine  that  it  is  true  that  this  law  has  resulted  in 
establishing  the  politicfd  preponderance  of  the  middle  classes ;  and 
that  this  is  as  It  ought  lo  be,  and  that  it  is  moreover  consistent  with 
justice  and  the  interest  of  the  country  that  it  should  be  so." 

It  is  important  to  bear  such  passages  as  these  in  mind,  not  merely 
as  a  key  to  the  policy  which  led  to  the  downfall  of  Louis  Philippe, 
but  in  order  to  apportion  the  credit  of  it  fairly  between  the  iUus- 
trious  competitors  for  it.  The  king  was  never  slow  to  take  the 
whole  credit  of  the  repressive  system  de  resistance  to  himself;  but 
it  is  no  uncommon  thing  for  a  man  to  pick  up  an  idea  dropped  by 
another,  and  afterwards  mistake  it  for  an  original  one  of  his  own ; 
and  it  is  more  than  possible  that  he  was  indoctrinated  by  M.  Guizot 
during  his  first  Administration.  We  have  seen  that  the  idea  was 
most  probably  suggested  to  M.  Guizot  by  the  moral  of  his  father's 
fate ;  and  the  sympathies  between  the  monarch  and  his  minister, 
arising  from  their  personal  experience,  must  therefore  have  so 
perfectly  accorded,  that  it  is  no  wonder  if  Louis  Philippe  accept- 
ed the  conclusions  which  had  been  early  formed  in  M.  Guizot's 
mind  for  the  natural  conclusions  of  his  own.  At  anv  rate,  they 
were  made  for  each  other,  and  the  palm  may  be  divided  between 
them. 

We  have  said  that  M.  Perier  was  well  supported  by  M.  Guizot,  as 
he  was  by  MM.  Thiers  and  Dupin ;  and  gallantly,  ably,  did  he 


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THE  CAREER  OF   M.  GUIZOT.  443 

stand  his  ^ound  amidst  difficulties  at  home  and  embarrassments 
abroad.  With  respect  to  the  latter,  it  must  not  be  concealed  that 
M.  Guizot  and  his  friends  had,  at  the  outset,  reversed  the  apophthegm 
of  Fouche  by  committing  worse  than  a  blunder— a  crime.  Appre- 
hensive of  the  interference  of  the  other  great  powers,  they  sought 
by  every  art  to  cut  out  work  for  them  elsewhere.  At  their  secret 
invitation  the  Spanish  refugees  in  England  were  invited  to  France. 
Valdez,  Lafro,  Navarelle,  Ingladu,  and  other  revolutionary  chieFi, 
were  provided  with  the  means  of  crossing  the  Pyrenees  into  Spain : 
the  French  government  contributed  largely  to  the  million  francs 
collected  for  the  Spanish  committee,  and  another  five  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  were  raised  on  their  security  from  the  Spanish  banker, 
Calaz.  Guizot,  with  his  own  hand,  presented  Ineladu,  the  aide-du^ 
camp  of  Torrijos,  with  one  hundred  and  ninety  four-guinea  pieces 
for  Colonel  Valdez ;  and,  lastly,  Louis  Philippe  himself  gave  one 
hundred  thousand  francs  towards  the  Spanish  revolutionary  expe- 
dition. The  Spanish  patriots,  however,  were  thought  no  more  of 
when  they  had  answered  the  purpose  of  creating  a  diversion  ;  and 
to  this  selfish  and  perfidious  policy  may  be  charged  the  untimely 
end  of  the  unfortunate  Torriios  and  his  friends.* 

The  accomplished  Casimir  Perier  was  suddenly  struck  down,  a 
victim  to  the  cholera ;  and  his  death  was  the  signal  for  Legitimacy 
and  Democracy  to  rally  and  reanimate  their  forces  against  the  com- 
mon enemy.  The  latter  again  began  to  dream  of  a  republic ;  and 
this  the  Carlists  were  not  unwilling  to  promote,  as  a  stepping-stone 
to  another  Restoration.  Of  the  two,  the  republican  party  certainly 
evinced  the  greatest  discretion,  and  it  was  probably  the  fanatic 
valour  of  the  Carlists  alone  which  originated  the  6meuU  at  the  fu- 
neral of  General  Lamarque.  This  time,  however,  resistance  carried 
the  day  with  a  strong  hand  and  a  high  head;  the  National 
Guards  were  firm  and  loyal,  and  the  troops  numerous  and  effectu- 
ally employed ;  and  for  once  the  snake  was  scotched. 

On  the  death  of  M.  Perier,  M.  Montalivet  was  accepted  as  a  sort  of 
minister  ad  interim,  until  some  combination  could  be  formed  by  the 
king  for  the  continuance  of  the  system  of  resistance,  which  he  was 
resolved  not  to  abandon.  Negotiations  were  opened  between  the 
king  and  M.  Dupin.  But,  although  there  were  irreconcilable  differ- 
ences between  them,  as  to  the  line  of  domestic  policy  to  be  pursued, 
the  king's  idea  of  making  his  foreign  policy  subservient  to  it  was  one 
which  >L  Dupin  rejected  tn  toto.  The  kin||f  conceived  that  abstinence 
abroad  was  absolutely  necessary  to  effective  repression  at  home  ;  but 
M.  Dupin  was  ambitious ;  he  aspired  to  a  higher  distinction  than  that 
of  merely  ruling  the  Faubourgs  of  Paris;  his  dreams  were  of 
European  fame,  which  an  imposmg  foreign  policy  alone  could  com- 
mand for  him ;  and,  while  he  was  waiting  with  confidence  for  the  re- 
sult, the  wily  king  dephyed  Soult  as  president  of  the  Coundl,  with  an 
offer  of  the  Presidency  of  the  Chamber  to  M.  Dupin,  to  soothe  his 
disappointment,  and  disarm  his  opposition. 

Under  M.  Soult  (11th  October,  1832)  the  Due  de  Broglie  became 
Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs,  M.  Thiers  of  the  Interior,  and  M. 
Humann  of  Finance,  while  M.  Guizot  accepted  the  secondary  office 
of  Public  Instructor.  It  must  not,  however,  be  supposed  that  an  ex- 
cess of  modesty,  or  a  lack  of  courage,  induced  M.  Guizot  to  put  up 

*  M.  Sarrans. 


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444  THE  OAREBR   OF   M.  OUIZOT, 

with  this  inferior  post.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  his  unbounded  coOi- 
fidence  in  himself,  his  consciousness  of  his  own  intrinsic  influence, 
which  always  rendered  him  indifferent  to  his  merely  nominal  rank 
in  the  government. 

Independent,  however,  of  M.  Guizot's  indifference  to  mere  nominal 
distinction,  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  preferred  the  portfolio  of 
Public  Instruction  to  any  other.  The  great  object  which  he  seems 
to  have  had  in  view,  was  no  less  than  to  educate  France, — ^to  impress 
the  rising  generation  with  his  own  moral  and  religious  sentiments^ 
and  thus  establish  the  ordre  social,  which  was  the  aim  and  end  of  his 
political  system.  He  was  as  yet  only  just  on  the  meridian  of  life; 
and,  if  successful,  might  reasonably  hope  to  see  a  glorious  harvest 
ripen  ere  his  decline ;  but  the  soil  was  worse  than  barren — it  was 
rank,  and  noxious  weeds  alone  rewarded  him  for  the  good  seed  he 
beitowed  upon  it.  No  one,  however,  can  deny  that  the  scheme  was 
conceived  in  the  comprehensive  and  provident  spirit  of  a  statesman, 
and  carried  out  with  the  care  and  industry  which  attest  honest  and 
philanthropic  intentions.  His  address  to  the  schoolmasters  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  things  of  its  kind  in  any  language. 

The  government  of  the  11th  of  October  (with  a  brief  secession  of 
Uiree  days,)  held  its  ground  for  nearly  four  years.  The  plots  of  the 
Carlists,  the  violence  of  the  Clubs,  and  the  licentiousness  of  the  press, 
afforded  them  ample  excuses  for  persevering  in  the  repressive  policy, 
which  in  such  circumstances  was  a  sine  qud  non  of  the  existing  order 
of  things  with  M.  Guizot.  He  never  shrank  from  avowing  the  laws 
of  September  as  more  immediately  his  own  work,  nor  has  he  ever 
sought  to  conciliate  the  enmity  which  that  avowid  excited  against 
him.  Certain  it  is,  that  the  laws  of  September  were  successful  for  a 
time  in  restoring  a  little  more  quiet  to  France ;  and  the  Ministry  was 
in  outward  appearance  daUy  gaining  strength,  when  it  was  broken 
up  on  the  question  of  intervention  in  Spain. 

After  another  interim  Ministry  of  six  months,  M.  Mole's  motley 
cabinet  was  constructed  (September  6th,  1886),  in  which  M.  Gnisot, 
refusing  the  portfolio  of  the  Interior,  resumed  that  of  Public  In* 
struction.  It  was,  however,  impossible  that  such  heterogeneous 
materials  should  long  cohere.  The  Strasburgh  affiur,  and  o&er  dif- 
ficulties, sprung  up;  and  though  M.  Guizot,  b^  the  sole  force  of  his 
character  and  will,  carried  his  colleagues  with  him  at  first,  his  uncom- 
promising policy  of  resistance  was  one  which  they  had  neither  the 
energy  nor  the  courage  to  continue.  M.  Giuzot  parted  from  them  in 
the  following  April,  after  a  short  connexion  of  six  months;  and  M. 
Mol^,  rdeased  from  the  master-spirit  which  had  before  overawed 
him  into  courses  which  were  repugnant  to  his  gentle  disposition, 
announced  a  Ministry  '^  of  conciliation."  He  was  joined  by  M.  Sal«> 
vandy  and  M.  Montalivet ;  and  the  Ministry  of  the  15th  of  April, 
thanks  to  the  stringent  measures  with  which  M,  Guizot  bad  &re- 
armed  th^m  in  1825,  enjoyed  smooth  water  for  a  while.  M.  Guizot, 
too,  under  a  severe  domestic  affliction— the  death  of  his  son-— had 
temporarily  retired  from  public  life ;  but  the  calm  was  soon  to  be 
followed  by  a  storm  which  would  have  broken  up  a  fiur  stronger 
cabinet  thim  any  which  such  a  man  as  M.  Mol6  could  possibly  have 
put  together. 

The  two  extreme  parties  in  oppositionp— the  men  ^'  de  progres,"  smd 
the  men  ''  de  remtoitc^/'— alike  conceived  a  strong  disgust  against 


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THE   CARE^t   OF  M.  GUIZOT.  445 

the  trimming  policy  of  the  Minidtry.  Each  of  them  saw  their  party 
daily  thinn^  by  deserters  to  *^  conciliation ;"  and  yet  in  their  state 
of  division  they  were  utterly  powerless  to  arrest  this  fatal  absorption 
of  then*  forces  by  dealing  a  death-blow  at  the  *^  conciliation  "  ministry 
its^.  In  this  state  of  things  M.  Mol^  most  ImprHdently  provoked 
M.  Guizot  from  the*  indulgence  of  his  private  sorrows^  by  throwing 
upon  him  all  the  obloquy  of  the  obnoxious  measures  whieh  he  had 
submiiied  to  during  their  brief  association  in  power.  M.  Guizot  at 
once  rushed  forth  to  avenge  this  mean  attack  upon  his  policy,  and 
the  famous  Coalition  was  formed,  of  which,  with  Thiers,  Odillon 
Barrot,  Berryer,  Gamier  Paces,  he  was  the  head.  Dreadful,  indeed, 
was  the  storm  which  M.  MoT<^  had  to  encounter.  It  bowed  him  to 
the  earth ;  but,  like  the  pliant  osier,  he  recovered  himself.  Again 
it  swept  down  upon  him ;  again  he  bent  to  it,  and  still  he  waa  un- 
broken. The  third  and  last  time  it  rushed  upon  him  with  renewed 
and  concentrated  fury ;  he  was  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  another 
interim  ministry  was  formed,  to  give  the  lately  confederated  factions 
of  the  coalition  time  to  re-mlMrshal  themselves  under  their  proper 
standards,  and  to  recover  their  breath  for  a  renewal  of  their  ancient 
quarrels  amongst  themselves. 

From  the  course  which  M.  Guizot  pursued  at  this  period,  it  is 
manifest  that  he  thought  the  time  was  come  when  the  assertion  of 
his  great  principle  of  renstance  might  be  definitively  established  in 
his  own  person.  He  thought  that  we  country,  worn  out  with  these 
party  contentions,  as  M.  Pascallet  says,  "  sentit  le  besoin  d'^ire  gou^ 
verni  ;"  and  he  also,  no  doubt,  conceived  that  it  was  further  necessary 
to  hie  plans  that  it  should  feel  "  le  besoin  de  M.  Guizot."  The 
course,  therefore,  he  pursued  was  to  lend  the  government  his  vote, 
without  afibrding  it  the  assistance  of  his  talents  and — *'  to  bide  his 
time." 

While  M.  Guizot  was  calmly  expecting  the  day  when  ^'  the  pear 
would  be  ripe,"  extraordinary  eventK  occurred,  which  afforded  most 
advantageous  employment  for  his  leisure,  and  in  the  end  contributed 
a  few  accidents  to  the  firm  establishment  of  his  power.  In  February, 
1840,  he  replaced  Marshal  Sebastiani  as  ambassador  in  London,  to 
concert  with  the  representatives  of  the  other  great  European  courts, 
the  solution  of  the  important  questions  which  had  arisen  in  the  East 
The  arrangements,  which  were  afterwards  embodied  in  the  Conven- 
tion of  July,  had  been  settled  by  the  other  high  contracting  parties 
before  the  arrival  of  M^  Guiaot ;  but,  neverth^ess,  he,  by  his  talent 
and  address,  obtained  many  important  modifications  in  favour  of  the 
Pacha  of  Egypt,  with  whose  interests  he  was  especially  charged.  M. 
Guizot,  however,  had  scarcely  left  France,  when  the  Admimstration 
which  had  appointed  him  was  dissolved,  and  M.  Thiers  succeeded  ta 
the  Presidency  of  the  Council.  Without  recalling  M.  Guizot,  M. 
Thiers  annulled  all  that  he  had  done,  and  the  consequence  was,  that 
the  Convention  was  signed  as  originally  agreed  upon,  wbile  France 
was  placed  in  a  galling  state  of  "  isolation,"  which  rendered  her  an 
object  of  apprehension,  if  not  of  danger,  to  her  neighbours. 

This  was  the  tide  in  the  affairs  of  France,  which,  taken  on  the 
turn,  was  to  lead  M.  Guizot  to— the  object  of  his  ambition.  M» 
Thiers  had  for  some  years  been  a  rising  man,  but  he  had  gradually 
adopted  more  extreme  opinions  than  tlMMe  which  he  professed  when 
he  first  served  as  Minister  of  the  Interior  under  Marshal  Soult.    On 


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446  THE  CAREER  OF   M.  OUIZOT. 

the  di89olutimi  of  the  "  Conciliation"  government^  and  the  separation 
of  the  Coalition,  he  had  filed  off  at  the  head  of  the  ultra-revolutionary 
party  of  July,  -while  M.  Guizot  retired  to  hold  himself  in  readiness 
for  the  command  of  the  resistance  party,  whenever  an  opportunity 
should  arrive  for  unfurling  their  banner.  During  the  absence  of 
M.  Guizot,  M.  Thiers  had  not  only  overthrown  the  just  milieu  ca- 
binet of  Marshal  Soult,  but  had  assumed  an  attitude  which  promised 
to  realise  the  wildest  aspirations  of  the  revolutionary  party,  abroad 
as  well  as  at  home.  He  had  taken  the  initiative  in  the  fortification 
of  Paris,  cast  away  the  confidence  of  all  the  great  powers,  and  in  all 
his  measures  seemed  to  threaten  the  repose  of  the  world.  But  his 
courage  failed  him  at  last.  **  Au  moment  de  paroitre  devant  les  Cham' 
bres"  says  Pascallet,  '^le  coeur  lui  ayant  manqu^  sans  doute,  il  fit 
naitre  un  pretexte  pour  de  retirer,  abandonnant  a  M.  Guizot  son 
poste,  avec  tous  ses  embarras,  tous  ses  dangers ! " 

Here,  then,  we  have  M.  Guizot  en  plein  pouvoir  at  last ;  and  he 
was  not  dilatory  in  demonstrating  in  wnat  manner  it  would  be  exer-> 
cised.  M.  Thiers  had  contemplated  the  fortification  of  Paris  to  awe 
enemies  without,  M.  Guizot  was  not  slow  in  accepting  the  project  to 
awe  enemies  within,  M.  Thiers  had  excited  the  revolutionary  party 
to  a  troublesome  activity  in  the  chamber ;  M.  Guizot  was  not  scru- 

Eulous  in  overwhelmine  them  by  a  venal  majority.  Yes;  this 
igh-minded  statesman  relt  that  any  means  were  justined  by  the  end 
he  had  in  view ;  and  it  gives  us  but  a  sorry  idea  of  political  inte. 
grity  in  France,  when  we  see  a  Minister  of  the  Crown  demanding  an 
additional  million  of  francs  for  the  secret  service,  and  at  the  same 
time  avowing,  as  if  it  were  the  most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world, 
that  the  secret  service  for  which  the  grant  was  intended,  was  to 
purchase  "  une  majority  gouvemmentale  dans  la  chambre  ^ective! " 
Yes ;  this  was  said  without  a  blush,  and  heard  without  a  shout  of 
execration ! 

Much,  however,  as  we  may  be  shocked  by  such  an  exhibition  of 
political  profligacy,  it  suggests,  nevertheless,  an  apology,  such  as 
It  is,  for  the  corrupt  practices  with  which  M.  Guizot  has  been 
charged  during  the  last  few  years.  If  the  upper  classes  in  France 
are  corrupt  and  venal,  it  is  evident  that  he  found  them  so.  Nemo 
repentefuU  turfnssimus;  and  had  not  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  been 
hardened  sinners,  no  Minister  would  have  dared  to  demand  of  them 
a  vote  in  open  day  for  bribing  a  majority,  as  coolly  as  he  would  a 
vote  for  the  navy  or  army.  It  must  have  been  long  a  regular, 
and  recognised  practice,  to  excite  no  outcry,  no  remonstrance,  in 
fact,  no  sensation  whatever ;  and  it  will  perhaps  serve  to  explain  the 
alarm  of  the  ''Coalition,"  lest  the  ''Conciliation"  party  should  have 
time  to  establish  itself  too  firmly. 

Notwithstanding  the  revolutionary  disposition  of  the  French, 
there  is,  perhaps,  no  other  people  under  the  sun  so  addicted  to 
systematizing.  £very  party  has  its  favourite  system  ;  and,  as  men 
are  far  more  obstinate  and  bitter  on  matters  of  opinion  than  upon 
matters  of  fact,  political  warfare  in  France  is  inspired  with  all  the 
intolerance  of  religious  controversy.  This  is  in  some  respects  an  ad- 
vantage to  a  Minister,  and  serves  to  explain  how  M.  Guizot  contrived 
to  hold  his  ground  lonff  after  he  had  lost  all  hold  on  the  respect  of 
the  country.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  so  unpopular  a 
Minister  to  have  stood  in  England  for  twelve  months ;  because  par* 


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THE  CAREER   OF  M.   GUIZOT.  447 

ties  are  more  easiljr  combined  here,  and  an  opposition  would  have 
been  formed,  against  which  even  the  favour  of  the  Crown  would 
have  been  no  protection.  But  in  France  there  are  no  materials  fcnr 
an  irresistible  opposition.  Party  is  there  so  split  into  factions,  and 
each  pursues  its  own  crotchet  with  such  violent  antagonism,  that  it 
is  difficult  to  amalgamate  them,  and,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
impossible  to  make  them  cohere.  At  the  jpresent  moment,  nothing 
keeps  such  men  as  Ledru  Rollin,  Louis  Blanc;  and  Lamartine  to- 
gether, but  the  monstrous  pressure  upon  them  ft'om  without.  Ifikai 
was  removed,  they  would  fly  off  firom  each  other  as  wide  as  the  poles 
asunder. 

One  of  the  elements,  therefore,  of  M.  Guiaot's  strength  consisted 
in  the  incongruous  and  repulsive  nature  of  the  materials  arrayed 
a^nst  him.  This  was  the  fault  of  the  opposition  themselves ;  but 
wnat  shall  we  say  of  the  means  which  he  employed  to  keep  around 
him  his  majority  ?  Those  means— corruption  in  every  department 
of  the  state--oould  not  be  justified  even  by  the  end ;  for,  though  we 
may  admit  that  a  government  is  one  of  the  first  necessities  of  a  state, 
no  government  could  be  worth  such  an  enormous  price  as  the 
destruction  of  all  private  honesty  and  political  morality.  When 
corruption  became  so  common  that  it  ceased  to  be  regarded  as  a 
crime — when  the  upper  classes  thrust  their  hands  into  the  public 
treasury  without  blushing — the  masses  would  not  be  slow  to  improve 
upon  the  example  of  then*  betters,  and  regard  private  property,  as 
well  as  public,  their  legitimate  spoil. 

Even  the  enemies  of  M.  Ouizot  admit  that  he  was  incorruptible 
himself,  though  he  was  so  unscrupulous  in  the  foul  work  of  corrupting 
others.  How  are  we  to  explain  this  inconsistency  in  his  character  ? 
Is  it  ^at  after  all  every  man  has  his  price,  if  you  know  in  what  coin 
to  offer  it?  Was  the  ambition  of  his  lofty  and  imperious  mind  so 
insatiable  for  influence  and  power,  that  he  would  condescend  to  a 
revolting  traffic  in  pensions  and  places  rather  than  submit  to  the 
mortification  of  defeat?  Or  was  it  that  he  saw  that  the  throne 
of  his  master  had  been  based  on  corruption,  and  could  onlv  be 
supported  by  corruption,  and  that  he,  therefore,  sacrificed  his 
better  principles  to  his  loyalty?  The  last  supposition  is  the 
more  charitable  one.  But  what  becomes  of  the  statesman  and  the 
patriot  if  we  admit  it  ? 

Political  mercenaries  are  infinitely  more  unerateful  and  treacher- 
ous than  even  military  mercenaries.  About  the  latter  there  is  some 
sense  of  honour,  and  some  sjnnpaihy  for  the  cause  to  which  they 
sell  themselves  for  a  campaign ;  but  a  political  mercenary  is  not  to 
be  depended  upon  for  a  day.  ''  Of  every  man  in  this  assembly,"  said 
Sir  Kobert  Wdpole,  speaking  of  the  House  of  Commons,  as  he 
was  leaving  it  in  disgust  for  ever,  "  of  every  man  in  this  assem* 
bly  have  I  bought  golden  opinions,  and  in  the  moment  of  trial  they 
desert  me."  The  ML  of  M.  Guisot  is  a  terrible  affirmation  of  the 
moral  of  this  anecdote ;  and  it  will  not  be  without  its  uses  to  man- 
kind if  it  operates  as  a  warning  to  future  statesmen  that,  as  honesty 
is  the  best  policy  for  an  individual,  so  corruption  is  the  very  worst 
policy  for  a  government ! 


VOL.   XXIII,  h   h 

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-   448 

THE  THREE  NUNS. 

BYALFBEDCROWQUILL. 

A  COUNTRY  invitation  I  There  always  has  been  a  charm  in  those 
three  words  that  has  spread  a  thrill  of  happiness  through  my  heart 
from  the  very  earliest  days  of  my  childhood^  when  my  visits  were  in- 
terregnums to  the  starchiness  of  Loudon  life ;  when  I  could  get  as 
muddy  as  I  pleased  and  as  ragged  as  a  colt  amidst  the  dark  woods 
and  the  thorny  brakes,  returning  laden  like  a  waggon  with  all  sorts  of 
wild  flowers  and  rubbish.  Blessings  on  that  simple  little  village, 
where  every  door  stood  open  to  welcome  the  little  London  gentle- 
man, who  was  always  *<  hail  fellow  well  met/'  with  all  the  chubby 
inmates.  Then  I  knew  of  no  distinction  but  that  which  happiness 
gave,  and  felt  no  reverence  for  any  king  except  the  king  of  good 
fellows. 

The  many  shadows  that  fall  between  us  and  those  sunny  days 
make  them  appear  more  golden  in  the  distance,  and  he  who  trusts 
himself  with  a  reminiscence  would  fain  return,  and  therefore  hails 
with  delight  a  country  invitation  from  any  of  his  rustic  friends. 

My  old  friend  Thornycliffe,  who  had  only  seen  London  once  in  his 
life,  when  some  law.  business  forced  him  for  a  few  weeks  to  live 
amidst  streets  and  houses,  wrote  to  me  in  his  kind  blunt  manner  a 
refresher,  in  the  shape  of  an  invitation,  pressing  me  to  spend  my 
Christmas  with  him  and  his  girls,  for  he  had  been  a  widower  for  some 
years.     A  snug  little  circle  was  promised  me,  and  plenty  of  sport. 

I  accepted  his  frank  and  kind  offer  with  heartfelt  pleasure,  for  my 
travels  and  occupation  had  divided  me  from  him  for  five  years ;  al- 
though I  had  promised,  in  the  most  tantalizing  manner,  to  treat  my- 
self by  a  visit  to  him  every  two  or  three  mouths,  but  as  often  found 
myself  disappointed  and  compelled  to  forego  my  resolve. 

But  now  I  made  a  strong  and  powerfully  binding  vow  that  I  would 
assert  my  independence,  bully  the  demon  of  business,  cut  him,  and 
let  him  see  that  one  of  his  overworked  slaves  could  find  resolution 
enough  to  break  his  golden  fetters.  Clear  away  I  was  the  word.  I 
was  indeed  indefatigable.  Stout  office  candles  sank  and  expired  under 
the  work  of  late  hours.  The  thunder  of  my  opening  and  shutting 
ponderous  ledgers  startled  the  office  mice^  and  they  scuttled  back 
again  into  their  holes,  from  which  they  were  issuing,  as  was  their 
nightly  wont,  to  gambol  and  disport  themselves.  I  worked  like  a 
man  under  contract  Hey  I  for  the  country ;  the  snug  chimney- 
corner,  the  wassail  bowl,  the  misletoe,  and  the  lips  to  be  pressed 
under  it  How  they  all  flitted  before  me,  causing  many  a  column  to 
be  cast  up  twice.  Kisses  and  sixpences  were  sadly  intermingled, 
and  he  must  be  a  better  arithmetician  than  I  am  who  can  make  a  sum 
out  of  them  combined,  except  the  sum  of  human  happiness;  but 
that 's  a  sum  we  must  not  calculate  upon,  especially  if  we  reckon 
upon  a  satisfactory  balance. 

At  last  a  finish,  shewing  a  splendid  year's  business,  and  a  most 
satisfactory  return.  The  darling  old  ledgers,  so  full  of  golden  pro- 
mise, were  wrapped  in  their  morocco  great-coats,  and  their  brass 


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THE  THREE  NUNET.  449 

dasps  snapped  with  a  merry  sounci^  as  they  were  put  to  bed  m  an 
old  iron  chest 

Then  came  that  puzzling  packing.  Pet  waistcoats  were  doubted 
over ;  files  of  boots  were  reviewed ;  which  to  take  and  which  to 
leave  was  the  question ;  always  a  puzzler  to  a  man  halfway  between 
twenty  and  thirty.  This  kept  me  up  until  a  late  hour.  Vanity  at 
last  crammed  my  portmanteau  to  that  extent  of  plethora,  that  an 
actual  divorce  was  effected  between  the  lock  and  the  hasp  thereof. 
I  only  got  over  this  difficulty  by  calling  up  the  stout  porter  of  my 
chambers  to  sit  upon  the  lid,  and,  as  he  weighed  sixteen  stone,  the 
instant  compression  of  boots,  hairbrushes,  and  apparel  was  astonish- 
ing. Portmanteaus  and  carpet-bags  have  always  been  an  amusing 
mystery  to  me,  for  no  man  living  has  ever  had  the  luck  to  see  one 
full.  What  man  blest  with  either  has  not  at  the  end  of  his  journey 
found  a  vacuum  that  would  hold  all  that  he  had  vainly  endeavoured^ 
to  get  in,  and  which  he  left  behind  him  with  regret  ?  I  firmly  believe 
that  it  is  as  impossible  to  completely  fill  these  travelling  Companions 
as  to  find  the  grand  arcanum. 

I,  however,  at  last  went  to  bed  to  dream  that  I  was  continually 
going  my  journey  and  shaking  hands  with  everybody.  I  awoke 
every  quarter  to  feel  that  I  was  too  late ;  looked  at  my  watch ; 
shook  it  in  a  savage  manner,  under  the  impression  that  it  had  stopped. 
No  I  it  was  all  right,  and  not  to  be  hurried. 

The  dark  six  o'clock  of  a  December's  morning  found  me  shaving 
under  great  difficulties ;  but  at  last  that  most  troublesome  operation 
was  achieved,  af^er  shedding  my  own  blood  in  the  most  ruthless  man- 
ner. Great-coat,  comforter,  and  cigar-case  (for  I  confess  I  smoke), 
were  all  ready.  I  looked  out  in  the  gloom,  not  to  be  called  daylight, 
for  the  cab  ordered  the  night  before.  No  appearance  of  that  respect- 
able conveyance*  Forgotten,  perhaps,  thought  I.  The  distant 
rumbling  of  market-carts  tantalised  me  dreadfully.  A  desperate 
thought  crossed  my  brain  of  attempting  to  walk  to  the  coach-office, 
but  one  glance  at  my  portmanteau  warned  me  of  the  impossibility ; 
80  I  sat  down  upon  it  with  a  sigh  of  nervous  irritability.  I  no  sooner 
seated  myself  than  I  was  up  again.  A  sharp  pull-up,  and  a  sprawl- 
ing, clattering  struggle  fVom  a  horse  proclaimed  the  arrival  of  the  cab. 

I  was  soon  rattling  over  the  stones  through  the  deserted  streets. 
It  was  just  that  hour  thought  night  by  comfortable,  respectable 
people,  and  daylight  by  the  misenSile,  outcast  wretches  who  shrink 
back  at  its  approach  into  their  dens,  from  out  the  streets  that  their 
weary  feet  have  trodden  in  those  hours  of  darkness,  alone  fitted  to 
cover  their  miseries  or  their  crimes. 

The  office  was  soon  reached,  and  the  coach,  full  of  merry  faces^ 
packed  high  with  multifarious  presents  from  London  friends,  rattled 
out  into  the  country  with  a  cheering  sound.  The  sun,  which,  through 
the  fog,  looked  like  a  magnificent  egg  that  was  poached  for  Aurora's 
breakfast,  soon  dispelled  the  gauzy  veil,  and  showed  us  the  full  splen- 
dour of  a  winter's  morning.  The  glittering  lace-work  of  the  hedges, 
from  which  the  towering  trees  rose  like  frosted  silver,  sparkled  bril- 
liantly as  the  sun  first  saluted  them ;  and  the  little  cottages,  peepmg 
from  under  the  dritled  snow,  looked  snug  in  their  downy,  winter 
coats.  The  brooks  alone  stopped  in  their  gambols  by  stern  winter, 
looked  dark  and  sullen. 

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450  '£HE  THBEE  NUNS. 

RattFe !  *  ratUe !  rattle !  went  the  harness ;  the  horses  threw  up 
their  heads  with  sheer  delight  at  having  lefl  their  dark  city  stables, 
and  seeming  to  say  **  We  should  like  to  go  the  whole  journey  with 
you :  really  you  are  no  weight  behind  us ;  we  make  nothing  of  you." 

The  first  sweet  odour  of  the  yule  logs  saluted  our  nostrils  most 
gratefully  as  we  bowled  through  the  little  villages.-  The  silent  repose^ 
so  striking  amidst  the  wide  expanse,  void  of  the  usual  cattle  and  in- 
dustrious husbandmen,  was  hardly  disturbed  by  our  passage  ;  for  we 
passed  so  noiselessly  in  our  course  over  the  displaced  snow,  that  we 
might  have  been  taken  for  a  phantom  coach  and  ghostly  passengers, 
had  not  the  jingle  of  the  harness  and  the  steam  from  the  horses  pro- 
claimed us  of  this  world* 

Oh  I  that  glorious  pull-up  at  the  snug  old  country  inn,  and  that 
more  glorious  fire  roaring  out  a  welcome  to  all  wayfarers  from  its 
wide-mouthed  chimney  comer,  and  the  red,  good,  old-fashioned  cur- 
tains coquettishly  drawn  on  one  side^  shewing  enough  of  the  inside 
comfort  to  tempt  all  to  enter  and  enjoy  its  full  luxury !  How  many 
benumbed  fingers  clasped  the  tall  glasses  of  ale  that  would  shame  any 
vaunted  sherry,  and  which,  though  cold  at  the  first  approach,  warmed 
you  to  the  heart  like  an  old  friend !  The  rattle  of  glasses  and  warm 
steaming  odours  proclaimed  that  the  coachn^an  and  commercial  tra- 
vellers were  buckling  on  their  armour  to  meet  the  sharp  warfare  and 
fierce  attacks  expected  at  every  comer,  although  the  novices  seemed 
warming  into  the  firm  belief  that  it  was  much  milder  than  when  we 
started.  But  I  knew  better;  for  I  could  hear  old  winter  puffing  and 
wheesing  outside,  and  shaking  the  shutters  with  angry  petulance  at 
our  escape  from  him  for  so  long  a  time ;  and  most  surely  did  he 
have  his  revenge  when  he  got  us  upon  the  next  bleak  common. 
Rarely  did  he  pelt  us  with  the  hardest  snow  sent  post  upon  a  rapid 
wind,  soon  leaving  us  very  little  distinguishable  from  the  luggage. 

At  last  a  sharp  pull-up,  and  ''  Here  we  are,  sir !"  addressed  to  me  by 
the  coachman,  made  me  bring  out  my  head  from  the  folds  of  my 
comforter.  Turning  my  eye  round,  I  felt  that  I  should  not  have 
been  more  bewildered  had  they  put  me  over  the  side  of  a  vessel  in 
the  broad  Atlantic,  and  told  me  to  find  my  way  to  Dover.  All  trace 
teemed  buried  beneath  the  deep  white  snow-wreaths  of  winter.  My 
mind  was,  however,  quickly  relieved  by  seeing  a  small  chaise-cart 
labourmg  through  the  intricacies  of  a  neighbouring  lane  towards  us ; 
the  loud  '*  Hallo  T  of  the  driver  sounding  cheerily  in  the  distance. 

My  luggage  was  soon  deposited  in  my  new  conveyance,  and  after 
wishing  my  late  companions  a  merry  Christmas,  I  mounted  beside 
my  conductor.  A  few  cracks  of  the  whip,  sounding  sharply  in  the 
frosty  air,  parted  us.  My  new  coachman  discovered  himself  to  be 
an  old  acquaintance,  when  he  emerged  from  his  voluminous  com- 
iorter,  which  had  entirely  hidden  his  well-known  face  up  to  the  eye- 
brows. Though  waxing  rather  old,  his  brown  face  was  full  of  anti- 
eipatory  glee  of  the  fun  to  come  off  at  the  Hall,  where  all  was  con- 
ducted in  the  true  old  English  style ;  where  the  season  made  equal 
the  master  and  the  man ;  good  things  being  prepared  for  the  beggar 
at  the  gate,  as  well  as  for  the  gentles  in  the  dining-hall ;  for  the  old 
squire  always  said  that  **  he  who  left  wilfully  one  heart  sad  at  such 
a  glorious  time,  deserved  to  have  the  shadow  fall  on  his  own  mirth/' 


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THE  THR££  NUNS.  451 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  welcome  he  gave  me  at  his  own 
gate,  where  he  stood  surrounded  by  his  quicUy  arriving  friends,  and 
seen  him  kiss  the  ladies,  young  or  old  ;  a  fine  old  fashion  very  much 
on  the  decline ;  but  when  he  introduced  three  fine-grown,  elegant 
girls,  as  his  little  daughters,  my  astonishment  was  unbounded.  These 
the  children  who  used  to  sit  upon  my  knee  to  listen  to  fiury  tales  ? 
Nonsense !  1  was  obliged  to  kiss  them  to  convince  myself.  Ah ! 
bless  such  merry  meetings.  The  world  is  a  pleasant  world  at  such 
times,  for  the  heart  seems  unlocked  and  to  stand  wide  open,  that 
every  one  may  walk  in  and  find  an  affectionate  welcome. 

Dinner,  the  next  charming  thing,  when  we  confess  to  mortality, 
arrived ;  and  such  a  dinner !  Had  we  been  besieged  we  could  not 
have  been  starved  out  under  a  month.  Fowls  as  large  as  geese ;  geese 
as  large  as  turkeys,  and  turkeys  as  large  as  swans ;  and  the  pudding  I 
the  pride  of  the  day,  made  two  servants  red  in  the  face  as  they  bore 
it  to  the  table.  The  burning  brandy  danced  round  its  huge  dark 
bulk,  licking  the  rich  outside  with  its  blue  tongues  in  the  most  pro- 
voking manner.  Reared  on  its  summit  stood  the  branch  of  holly,  to 
mark  it  as  a  present  to  his  votaries  from  jolly  King  Christmas. 

The  golden  sherry  and  the  russet  port  vanished  in  the  most  ex- 
hilarating manner.  Everybody  seemed  to  want  an  excuse  to  smile 
at  his  neighbour;  healths  were  hobnobbed  over  twice,  rather  in  doubt 
whether  it  had  been  done  before.  The  gentlemen  grew  red  in  the 
face,  and  bright  scintillations  came  into  downcast  eyes.  The  talking 
was  charming,  but  boisterous ;  every  soul  seemed  to  remember  some- 
thing funny ;  and  as  the  laugh  was  surci  it  was  quite  a  harvest  for 
story-tellers. 

llie  yule  log  sparkled  in  the  broad  chimney  as  we  made  the  cozy 
after-dinner  circle,  in  which  I  managed  to  place  myself  next  to  one 
of  my  old  playfellows,  my  host's  eldest  daughter.  It  was  astonishing 
how  much  we  had  to  say  to  each  other,  and  how  delightful  it  was. 
The  <<  don't  you  remembers  ?"  took  us  back  to  our  childhood's  days, 
and  we  soon  forgot  that  we  had  been  parted  for  so  long.. 

In  looking  round  the  quaintly  pannelled  and  carved  chamber,  a 
large  escutcheon,  rudely  cut  in  bold  relief,  caught  my  view.  It  soon 
came  to  my  memory  as  an  old  acquaintance.  The  subject  was,  three 
nuns  kneeling  beside  each  otlier,  with  three  death's  heads  inter- 
woven with  the  foliage  of  the  framework. 

'^  Well,"  said  I, ''  do  I  remember  that  curious  subject,  which  I  used 
to  wonder  at  on  my  visits  here  as  a  child,  for  it  always  attracted  my 
attention  from  its  quaint  and  lugubrious  character.  What  could  in- 
duce them  to  put  such  a  miserable  subject  in  any  room  intended  for 
constant  occupation  ?" 

*'  Dq  you  not  know  the  legend  attached  to  that  picture?"  said  my 
fair  companion. 

^<  Indeed  I  do  not,"  replied  I ;  '<  but  I  should  be  deh'ghted  to  hear 
it  from  you." 

"  The  legend  I  the  legend  I  by  all  means,"  cried  the  company 
unanimously.  **  Everybc^y  must  tell  one  at  Christmaa  time,  so  you 
are  fairly  caught." 

After  some  faint  refusals,  and  some  very  becoming  bashfulness,  my 
.charming  playfellow  was  prevailed  upon,  and  she  commenced. 


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452  THE   THREE  NUNS. 

"  This  maDsion  was  occupied^  in  the  reign  of  the  bigot  Mary,  by  a 
thriving,  but  hard  man^  named  Mortimer.  He  was  a  widower,  left 
with  four  daughters.  The  eldest  was  his  favourite,  on  account  of 
her  disposition  being  so  like  his  own,  both  being  penurious  and 
grasping,  yet  ambitious  to  a  degree.  She  looked  with  little  kindness 
or  affection  upon  her  three  younger  sisters ;  for  she  beheld  in  them 
only  spoilers  of  her  inheritance,  and  scatterers  of  the  substance  which 
she  loved  above  all  earthly  things. 

'^  Day  after  day  was  one  continued  manoeuvring  struggle  kept  up  by 
her,  and  well  seconded  by  her  father,  to  seek  alliances  for  them  in 
quarters  where  their  portions  would  be  no  object ;  so  that  her  dowry 
might  secure  the  hand  of  some  neighbouring  roan  of  note,  whose 
name  would  aggrandize  the  family.  Young,  joyous,  and  unsuspect- 
ing, the  sisters  were  unconscious  of  the  deep  art  of  their  eldest  sister, 
or  the  absence  of  natural  affection  in  the  bosom  of  their  only  re- 
maining parent  Too  soon  were  they  startled  from  their  confiding 
security,  when  the  hand  of  their  sister  was  sought  by  a  gentleman  of 
noble  ^mily  in  the  neighbourhood.  Poor  though  noble ;  who  looked 
for  an  equivalent  for  his  wife's  want  of  rank  in  the  magnificence  of 
her  dowry. 

"  Long  and  anxious  were  the  communings  between  the  father  and 
daughter,  so  well  fitted  to  each  other  in  their  views  and  heartless- 
ness.  But  no  management  could  scrape  together  a  sufficient  sum  to 
meet  the  demand  of*  the  noble  suitor's  family,  who  thought  that  if 
they  did  stoop,  picking  up  money  was  the  only  palliation.  Her  sis- 
ters, being  single,  must  be  provided  for  after  some  fashion ;'  but,  alas  1 
the  family  purse  needed  to  be  emptied  of  its  last  coin,  if  she  hoped  to 
become  a  bride. 

"At  last  a  resolve,  frequent  in  those  times,  was  taken  by  Uie  am- 
bitious pair ; — to  immure  the  three  younger  sisters  in  a  neighbour- 
ing convent.  This  announcement  drove  the  young  blood  back  to  the 
hearts  of  the  youthful  sisters ;  hearts  open  to  all  the  tenderest  affec- 
tions, and  beating  with  love  for  the  beautiful  world  in  which  they 
dwelt.  The  eldest  of  the  three  felt  most  deeply  the  blow  which 
would  separate  her  from  one  who  in  secret  had  whispered  that  she 
was  beautiful.  He  was  far  away,  and  unconscious  of  the  sacrifice 
about  to  be  made  of  one  so  fit  to  ornament  the  world  with  her 
virtues. 

"  In  those  times  the  will  of  the  father  was  a  law  incontrovertible ; 
therefore  they  looked  forward  with  little  hope  to  a  favourable  change 
in  their  fate.  They  drooped  with  grief,  for  they  were  most  fondly 
attached,  and  sought  in  each  other  the  sympathy  and  affection  denied 
to  them  by  their  stern  and  politic  sister. 

''  Tears  and  entreaties  were  unavailing.  They  were  committed  to 
the  walls  of  the  gloomy  convent.  The  proud  heart  of  the  eldest 
sister  expanded  with  joy  as  she  beheld  the  broad  lands  now  all  to  be 
her  own  dowry,  and  the  noble  suitor  at  her  feet,  who  praised  her 
charms,  which  he  alone  beheld  in  the  broad  pieces  of  her  ambitious 
parent. 

"  The  day  at  last  arrived  which  was  to  give  to  her  the  great  guer- 
don of  her  ambition,  and  she  stood  proudly  beside  the  altar  to  be 


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THE  THBXE  NUNS.  45S 

loade  Dobk^  .but  qoI  happy;  for,  amidst  the  clusCering  groups  of 
priests  and  nuns  stood  three  pale  Uiehted  figures, — her  sacrificed 
sisters.  Id  vain  did  she  strive  to  avoid  their  fasciDatiug  ga^e.  The 
proud  Bush  of  triumph  left  her  cheek  as  they  stood  before  her  in 
their  grave-like  habiliments.  Eloquently  did  their  pale  lips  speak 
to  her  of  their  wrongs  and  of  her  utter  lieartlessness.  That  moment 
revenged  them  I  for  their  melancholv  eyes  turned  her  proud  heart 
to  stone.  Her  ambition  became  stripped  of  its  delusions,  and  she 
left  her  peace  where  she  had  immolatea  theirs. 

^  That  night  the  three  sisters  slept  beneath  the  waters  of  the  con- 
vent lake^  and  the  melancholy  wail  stilled  the  music  in  the  bridal 
ball. 

^  Where  now  was  the  triumph  of  that  selfish-hearted  sister  ?  She 
cowered  and  fied  from  the  festive  hall  to  seek  her  too  dearly-bought 
bridal  chamber.  As  she  hurried  through  the  long  corridor,  a  bright 
light  dimmed  her  flickering  lamp.  Her  three  sisters  stood  before 
her  as  she  last  had  seen  them>  beckoning  her  on  to  her  apartment. 
She  fell  senseless  upon  the  floor,  where  she  was  found  by  her  bride- 
groom and  her  father.  Upon  returning  consciousness  she  had  only 
power  enough  to  tell  them  of  the  harrowing  sjght  that  she  had  seen^ 
and  expired  in  their  arms. 

''Moodily  the  father  traversed,  from  that  night,  the  halls  of  his 
berefl  house.  In  one  of  his  half-mad  whims,  he  had  that  escutcheon 
carved,  as  if  to  keep  before  his  eyes  a  lasting  memento  of  his  own 
misguided  ambition. 

"  Some  short  time  after,  an  old  retainer  of  the  family,  in  passing 
through  the  corridor,  beheld  to  his  horror  the  weeping  forms  of  the 
three  sisters  issue  noiselessly  from  the  door  of  his  master's  chamber. 
His  alarm  brought  the  rest  of  the  servants  to  his  aid,  when^  on  enter- 
ing, they  found  their  stern  old  master  dead. 

"  From  that  time  ever  after,  the  appearance  of  the  three  nuns  was  a 
sure  precursor  of  the  death  of  some  of  that  family." 

''  I  '11  trouble  you  for  another  glass  of  port/'  said  an  old  russet- 
faced  gentleman^  whose  features  had  elongated  considerably  under 
the  infliction  of  the  foregoing  ghostly  legend.  ''  I  beg,"  continued 
he^  after  he  had  fortified  himself  with  a  bumper,  ''that  that  dose  may 
not  be  repeated ;  for,  of  all  the  unmitigated  bundle  of  stupid  ghosts 
sure  I  never  met  with  the  like  :  so,  posh  back  the  chairs,  and  hey  I 
for  a  glorious  dance ;  for  that  undertakering  story  has  chilled  every 
drop  of  blood  in  my  veins." 

No  sooner  proposed  than  done,  everybody  being  more  than  wil- 
ling ;  so  we  soon  kicked  the  ghosts  into  the  red  sea  with  a  hearty 
double  shuffle.  None  of  your  stately  quadrilles,  but  country  dances, 
every  one  with  kissing  partners,  and  little  trifling  introductions  of 
that  kind. 

^  Fast  and  furious,"  grew  the  fun.  The  dust  flew,  and  the  good 
old  wine  laid  it,  and  many  of  its  votaries  as  well.  I  remember, 
albeit  I  am  a  sober  man,  endeavouring  to  kiss  a  dozen  ladies  at  once, 
and,  somehow,  embracing  the  door-post,  which  was  confoundedly 
hard 

By  some  curious  magic,  the  next  thing  I  remember  is,  that  I  was 
wending  my  way  up  the  wide  old  staircase  with  a  chamber-candler 


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454  THE  THREE  NUNS. 

Stick  in  my  hand,  and  with  a  particular  affection  for  the  balustrades. 
I  knew  my  chamber.  It  was  one  well  known  to  me  in  the  old 
corridor.  The  old  corridor!  Egad,  that  was  not  so  pleasant  to 
remember  just  then.  I  felt  a  strange  sort  of  chUl  come  over  me. 
Hang  the  thing,  that  that  stupid  legend  should  at  that  moment  come 
into  my  head. 

I  endeavoured  to  baffle  the  evil  spirit-— but  no ;  it  would  stick  to 
me,  as  if  it  were  nailed  to  my  brain.  The  long,  low,  arched  corridor 
gaped  before  me,  black  as  a  modern  tunnel.  Right  or  left  ?  I  was 
puzzled  which  was  my  road  to  turn.  I  took  a  resolution  and  turned 
to  the  left;  but  a  closet-door  standing  a-jar  knocked  my  candle 
from  my  hand,  and  I  was  in  utter  darkness.  Horrible  I  I  groped 
my  way  to  a  window-seat  to  collect  my  scattered  senses,  but'  in 
vain — my  head  went  round  like  a  humming-top ;  the  dreadful  place 
was  as  dark  as  pitch.  I  believe  I  slept;  for  I  was  awakened 
by  a  loud  shrill  scream.  Bewildered  and  alarmed,  I  opened  my 
eyes ;  judge  my  horror,  when,  a  few  paces  from  me,  I  beheld 
three  figures  in  white  with  their  eyes  fixed  upon  me  I — the  Three 
Nuns  I  I  believe,  in  my  moment  of  terror,  I  cried  out,  and  attempt- 
ed to  bolt  down  the  staircase,  and  in  doing  so  had  nearly  disabled  my 
friend's  worthy  butler  by  sending  my  head  into  his  stomach,  and  pre- 
cipitating him  down  a  short  angle  of  the  aforesaid  staircase.  He 
quickly  recovered  himself,  and  helped  me  to  my  feet.  I  incoherently 
explained  to  him  the  cause  of  my  terror ;  but  he  only  put  his  hand  to 
his  forelock,  and  <*  Yees,  sur,**  as  coolly  as  if  the  first  floor  had  been 
legally  let  to  the  ghosts.  He  soon  piloted  me  to  my  chamber,  and 
got  me,  with  some  difficulty,  out  of  my  boots,  all  the  time  only  re- 
tumine  a  quiet  ''Ah  I"  or  '^  Oh  !"  to  my  hurried  narration.  Thick- 
headed brute  I^he  bad  no  faith,  and  I  had  decidedly  seen  them.  I 
sat  up  in  bed.  I  was  sober,  although  lying  doim  did  not  seem^  t<itsult 
my  head ;  for  the  moment  I  did  so  the  bed  appeared  to  do  something 
very  like  **  hands  across  and  down  the  middle,  turn  your  partners^*' 
&c  Yet,  somehow  or  other,  I  must  have  slept^  for  I  awoke  with  a 
gleam  of  sun  shining  into  mv  room,  my  tongue  dry,  my  water-jug 
nearly  empty,  and  shaving  undecided. 

I  popped  my  head  out  into  the  frosty  air  through  my  little  case- 
ment, which  greatly  invigorated  me.  A  laughine  group  were  trot- 
ting towards  the  Hall  as  if  returning  from  a  mommg's  walk.  I  hur- 
ried down  to  the  breakfast-room ;  there  I  found  them  all  assembled, 
and  was  greeted  with  most  mysterious  looks ;  the  guests  all  seemed 
endeavouring  to  smother  a  laugh,  whilst  my  friend's  daughters  ap- 
peared afraid  of  meeting  my  looks,  and  the  butler  looked  with  a 
most  provoking  leer  out  of  the  comer  of  his  eye.  My  old  friend  was 
worse  than  the  rest ;  for  he  asked  me  how  I  felt  myself,  in  a  tone  as 
if  I  had  been  confined  to  my  bed  for  a  month. 

I  at  last  became  rather  tetchy  at  being  apparently  the  object  of 
some  mysterious  joke.  ''Zounds,  squire  I  what  are  you  all  about?" 
at  last  I  exclaimed ;  "  there  appears  to  be  some  joke  going  on  that  I 
do  not  understand,  so  pray  let  me  into  it,  for  by  your  looks  I  seem  to 
be  intimately  connected  with  the  jest." 

"  No,  no,  young  gentleman,"  replied  the  old  squire ; ''  we  want  the 
explanation  from  you,  as  to  why  you  chose  to  wander  about  my  house 
in  the  dark,  and  assault  my  butler,  whose  anxiety  for  the  spoons  had 


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THE  ISLES  OF  THE  BLEST.  455 

kept  him  up  nearly  the  last  in  the  house.  I  assure  you  he  com- 
plained grievously  of  his  ribs  this  morning." 

**  Then,  squire,  said  I,  **  if  I  did  not  fear  being  laughed  at— for, 
remember,  I  never  believed  in  ehosts  myself — I  woiSd  say,  most 
solemnly,  that  I  saw  the — "  I  hesitated. 

**  What  I "  exclaimed  the  whole  group  with  one  voicCt 

**  The  Three  Nuns,  in  the  corridor.  Old  James  heard  the  scream 
as  they  vanished,  which  brought  him  to  my  aid." 

At  this  avowal  I  was  greeted  with  such  a  loud  simultaneous  laugh 
that  I  felt  my  very  face  and  ears  tingle  with  the  rushing  crimson  of 
my  blood, 

**  Oh,  Charley,  my  boy,"  exclaimed  the  squire,  after  he  had  reco- 
vered from  an  almost  apoplectic  fit  of  laughter, ''  you  11  be  the  death 
of  us  all.  You  dog,  you  didn't  retire  until  you  had  done  full  justice 
to  Christmas  Eve ;  in  fact,  we  hardly  dared  trust  you  with  a  candle, 
which  you  seem  to  have  extinguished  rather  prematurely,  as  you  took 
the  corridor  for  your  bedchamber,  which  improper  disposal  of  your 
person  alarmed  my  three  girls,  who,  like  good  housewives,  had  sat  up 
to  see  all  right,  and  who  certainly  screamed  from  surprise  and  the 
horror  at  your  seeing  them  in  their  curl-papers  and  dressing-gowns." 

As  he  concluded,  the  laugh  again  burst  forth,  and  I  stood  looking 
very  like  a  fooh  I,  however,  soon  recovered  myself,  and  laughed 
with  the  rest  at  the  droll  Christmas  frolic  which  my  brain  had  chosen 
to  play.  Happy  was  that  glorious  Christmas-day,  joyous  was  our 
evening,  tempered,  however,  by  the  warning  of  the  over-night's  ex- 
cess. They  trusted  me  that  night  with  the  chamber-candlestick 
without  risk.  One  of  the  three  ghosts  haunted  my  dreams ;  and  al- 
though this  may  be  immaterial  to  the  reader,  it  became  very  material 
to  me,  for  I  found,  on  quitting  the  Hall,  that  I  lost  all  my  spirits;  so 
I  returned  and  married  my  favourite  ghost,  and  took  her  home  with 
me. 


THE  ISLES  OF  THE  BLEST. 


I  HAVE  heard  of  blessed  isles,  in  a  sea  of  glory  set. 
Where  we  shall  cease  from  weeping,  and  our  miseries  forget ; 
Where  shining  bands,  with  golden  harps,  will  meet  us  on  our  way. 
Beside  the  crystal  rivers  of  everlasting  day  I 

Think  not  that  pleasure,  wealth,  or  ease,  will  gain  this  glorious  rest. 
But  taking  up  a  "  daily  cross,**  our  Saviour's  own  bequest; 
The  cross  that  brings  a  sinner  home,  to  lie  at  Jesus*  feet 
And  trusting  in  His  love  alone,  find  consolation  sweet. 

The  lou  of  health,^the  heart's  own  grief,  unshared  by  human  kind. 
Is  sanctified  by  prayerful  feuth,  if  self-will  be  resigned ; 
With  His  supportinff  arms  beneath,  upon  life*s  stormy  sea, 
The  Islands  of  the  Blest  will  prove  a  haven  sure  to  me ! 

C.A.M.W. 


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LITERARY  STATISTICS  OP  PRANCE  POR  FIFTEEN 

YEARS,  ♦ 

The  condition  and  character  of  French  literature  has  for  many 
years  past  been  an  interesting  subject  of  inquiry,  even  for  those  who 
are  not  much  in  the  habit  of  looking  to  it  for  any  considerable  por- 
tion of  their  mental  aliment  Nowhere  dse,  perhaps,  are  some  of 
the  most  prominent  features  of  the  literature  of  the  present  day  so 
strikingly  exhibited ;  nowhere  else  is  the  connection  between  the 
literature  and.the  life  of  a  nation  so  close  and  intimate ;  in  no  other 
literature  is  ''the  age  and  body  of  the  time,  its  form  and  pressure," 
so  vividly  reflected ;  nowhere  else  does  the  written  word  so  soon 
,  become  incarnate  in  deed  as  in  the  capital  of  France.  The  direct 
and  most  powerful  influence  of  the  press  in  the  formation  of  public 
opinion,  is  a  fiict  everywhere  obvious  enough,  but  becomes  a  sub- 
ject of  more  anxious  observation  there,  from  the  tendency  of  opinion 
to  explode  instantaneously  into  action ;  there,  too,  not  merely  news- 
papers, but  almost  every  publication  that  issues  from  the  press, 
grave  or  gay,  heavy  or  hght,  is  more  or  less  strongly  imbued  with 
the  popular  feeling  of  the  passing  hour,  and  is  representative  of 
some  theory  that  has  taken  possession,  for  the  time,  of  the  popular 
mind.  The  history  of  literature  in  Prance  is,  therefore,  even  more 
than  in  any  other  country^  indispensable  to  the  history  of  society. 

Since  the  fountains  of  the  great  deep  of  social  existence  have  be«i 
broken  up,  and  the  profoundest  questions  of  government  and 
human  life  have  been  brought  to  the  surface^  and  made  the  subjects 
of  general  and  daily  discussion,  the  literature  of  France,  if  it  have 
lost  something  in  refinement,  has  gained  much  in  passionate  earnest- 
ness, compass,  and  strength  of  tone.  Her  writers  do  not  aspire  to 
dwell  apart  in  a  ''privacy  of  glorious  light,"  or  look  to  the  distant 
reward  of  future  fame :  they  take  their  subjects  from  the  events  of 
the  passing  day,  throw  themselves  headlong  into  the  arena,  where 
the  most  agitating  conflicts  are  carried  on,  and  catch  the  fervid 
breath  of  enthusiasm  as  it  rises  warm  from  the  passions  of  the  mul- 
titude. 

It  is  nothing  new  to  find  that  the  importance  of  any  branch  of 
literature,  estimated  in  its  eflect  on  the  public  mind,  may  be  taken 
at  nearly  the  inverse  ratio  of  its  bibliographical  dignity  ;  and  in 
taking,  under  the  guidance  of  M.  Louandre,  a  glance  at  some  facts 
concerning  the  intellectual  production  of  France  for  the  last  fifteen 
years,  we  pass  over  the  department  of  theolosy  and  abstruse  philo- 
sophy, for  this  reason,  as  well  as  because  it  would  lead  us  into 
regions  too  high  and  diflicult  of  access  for  our  present  purpose. 

Fassing  these,  we  come  next  to  where  the  prospect  is,  in  many 
respects,  highly  satisfactory — ^to  those  departments  of  literature 
whose  business  it  is  to  assist  and  record  the  triumphs  of  physical 
science.  In  Natural  History,  we  find,  that  though  production  has 
been  very  active,  the  writers,  far  from  sharing  in  the  inordinately 
eager  money-getting  spirit,  so  painfully  conspicuous  in  many  cases^ 

*  <<  Statistique  Lit^raire  de   la  production   intellectueUe   en   FriOioe   depuis 
Quinse  ans.    Par  M.  Charles  Louandre." 


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LITERARY   STATISTIOS   OF  FRANCE.  457 

have  often  imoosed  on  themselves  heavy  sacrificeSy  and  devoted 
themselves  to  tJieir  pursuit  with  a  disinterested  passion. 

In  Geography^  we  have  abundance  of  great  works,  relations  of 
voyages,  undertaJcen  at  the  expense  of  the  state,  for  the  observation 
of  astronomical  phenomena,  and  the  advancement  of  science  and 
civilizatiou,  to  which  France  has  made,  or  endeavoured  to  make, 
even  her  military  conquests  subservient ;  and  the  efforts  of  indivi* 
duals  have  been  joined  to  those  of  government.  Travels,  econo- 
mical, political,  archsological,  &c.,  have  increased  to  an  unparalleled 
extent ;  and  the  light  troops  of  '*  Residences,"  **  Recollections,"  and 
*'  Impressions  de  Voyage,"  to  the  number  of  about  eighty  works  a 
year,  have  helped  to  dilute  the  less  wholesome  ingredients  of  the 
circulating  libraries.  Sacred  and  ecclesiastical  history,  the  lives  of 
saints,  the  histories  of  religious  orders,  of  popes  and  councils,  reach 
a  higher  figure  than  might  have  been  anticipated.  In  the  year 
1845  they  amounted  to  no  fewer  than  a  hundred  and  twenty-one 
works,  besides  a  very  large  number  of  religious  books  of  smaller 
bulk,  in  the  publication  of  which  the  convents  and  religious  associ- 
ations have  entered  into  active  competition  with  *^  the  trade." 

Of  Historical  works  we  find  an  imposing  mass,  some  even  which 
were  begun  under  the  old  monarchv,  and  which — interrupted  by  the 
revolution  of  1793— have  since  1830  been  recommenced.  One  of 
these,  the  "  Recueil  des  Ordonnances,"  was  undertaken  by  order  of 
Louis  XIV.  Besides  great  collections  of  historical  papers,  such 
as  the  ''Collection  des  Documens  inedits  relzttifs  a  THistoire  de 
France,"  published  under  the  auspic^s^  and  at  the  expense  of  govern- 
ment, we  have  historical  works  by  Messrs.  Guizot,  Thierry,  Sal- 
vandy,  Mignet^^&^^an^'btBer  less  celebrated  names. 

UnfortunirtcIyTthe  success  of  these  and  of  various  compilations 

(amongst^hich    the    "Tableaux  Synoptiques    de   I'Histoire  de 

Franci^sold  fifty  thousand  copies  in  a  few  months),  has  attracted 

^e  /Attention  of  speculators,  in  whose  calculations  the  interests  of 

^^TsXxLTe  and  science  had  very  little  share.    Workshops  have  been 

jC^anized  for  the  fabrication  of  histories,  general  and  special,  the 

/work  being,  in  the  first  instance,  undertaken  by  some  man  of  note, 

M     or  perhaps  in  an  official  position,  who  was  to  rieceive  a  certain 

/     amount  per  sheet,  and  who  then  immediately  engaged  a  subordinate 

to  perform  the  duty  for  about  sixty  francs  a-sheet  less.    There  are 

instances  even  of  the  latter  acting  as  middle-man,  and  sub-letting 

his  job,  at,  of  course,  a  still  further  reduction  of  payment.     How 

the  work  was  done  on  such  a  system  as  this  may  easily  be  imagined. 

Under  the  ancient  monarchy,  most  of  the  provinces  had  their  his- 
torians,  usually  Benedictine  monks,  who  wrote  vast  books,  bristling 
with  names  and  dates,  and  of  which  the  affairs  of  the  church,  of 
course,  occupied  the  largest  portion.  These  had  been  long  discon- 
tinued, but  in  1832  a  provincial  history,  entitled  '*  L'Ancien  Bour- 
bonnais,"  was  begun  l^  M.  Charles  AUier,  at  Moulins ;  and  this 
gave  the  signal  for  the  appearance  of  various  works  of  a  similar  cha- 
racter, in  different  parts  of  the  kingdom,  which,  it  is  said,  rival,  in 
point  of  material  execution,  some  of  the  finest  productions  of  the 
Farisiai^ress. 

Paris,  however,  could  not  neglect  to  work  what  proved  so  profit- 
able  a  vein  as  that  of  picturesque  illustration;  and  at  one  time  no 
less  than  three  "  BritUnies  Illustrated"  were  in  the  nurket  But  the 


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468  LITERARY    STATISTICS  OF  FRANCE 

most  remarkable  production  of  this  kind  ever  undertaken  in  France, 
or  perhaps  in  the  world,  is  the"  Voyage  Pittoresque  ft  AytisUque 
dans  I'Ancienne  France,"  which,  when  it  shall  be  finished,  should 
that  day  ever  arrive,  will  cost  each  subscriber,  or  his  heir,  no  less  a 
sum  than  thirty-three  thousand  francs  (£1,320).  ,     .    i 

Memoir.writing,  a  branch  of  literature  belonging  almost  exclusively 
to  France,  appears  to  have,  in  a  great  measure,  fallen  to  decay ;  sel- 
dom  manifesting  itself  of  late,  except  as  an  epidemic  araonK  anaent 
ladies,  concerning  whom  what  is  most  noteworthy  is,  that  they  have 
all  received,  but  disdained,  the  homage  of  the  Emperors  Napoleon 
or  Alexander.  Biographies  have  issued  at  the  rate  of  about  two 
hundred  and  fifty  a-year,  of  which  many  have  been  pamphlets,  and 
some  "Biographies  Universelles ;"  no  longer,  however,  the  fruit  of 
the  long,  patient  toil  of  a  single  man,  but  by  a  variety  o£  hands  of 
very  vadous  degrees  of  merit,  and  of  every  shade  of  political  and 
religious  opinion.  Their  subjects  are  often  infinitesimally  small, 
descending  even  to  notorious  robbers  and  precocious  (children. 

Periodical  literature  would  of  course  open  too  wide  a  field  to  be 
entered  on  here,  we  may  therefore  merely  mention,  that  the  total 
number  of  regular  newspapers  occupying  themselves  with  pohucs, 
science,  literature,  manufacturing  industry,  and  scandal,  is,  or  was 
previous  to  the  late  crisis,  about  five  hundred,  of  which  a  l^ge 
proportion  was  fiercely  republican ;  but  of  bite  the  word  republic 
had  been  replaced  by  that  of  democracy.  During  the  first  years 
that  followed  the  July  revolution,  the  agitations  of  party  spmt,  the 
passions  raised  in  the  sir uggle>sthe  consciousness  that  the  eves  of 
Europe  were  upon  them,  all  helpeJ^tM^18t«nthe  tone  of  the  French 
journals,  and  gave  them  creat  interestsTwiSNBpeJJJ^P^^^lP*^^  ^ 
discuss.  But  subsequently,  politics  gave  way  tocoBIJ^®'?^*^'^®, 
trade ;  they  no  longer  addressed  themselves  to  the  convict^*.' 
to  the  curiosity  of  Uie  public,  and  exerted  themselves  succesSN^^^ 
gain  fVom  the  idle  classes  a  large  addition  to  their  subscribertfe  ^ 
the  deplorable  introduction  of  the  feuiUeton  romance,  to  whicnS^^ 
shall  again  have  occasion  to  allude.  ^V 

These  regular  newspapers  have  been  for  the  last  twenty-five^ 
years  fiank^  by  a  numerous  corps  of  small  papers,  whose  attacks  i 
have  not  been  always  less  formidable  for  being  made  with  light  \ 
weapons,  and  which  bear  the  same  relation  to  the  newspaper,  t£at 
the  vaudeville  does  to  the  regular  high  comedy.  There  are  also  a 
few  reviews  and  magazines  on  the  English  plan,  and  another  impor- 
tation Arom  our  side  of  the  Channel,  the  illustrated  papers,  which 
hold  a  prominent  place  in  what  M.  Louandre  aptly  calls  "the  lite- 
rature of  grown  children."  Pictures,  it  has  been  said,  are  the  books 
of  the  ignorant.  Besides  these,  there  are  periodicals  specially  ad- 
dressed to  various  classes,  ages,  and  sexes,—- Children's  Journals, 
Boys  and  Girls',  Ladies'  and  Bachelors'  ditto ;  and  others  for  lawyers, 
musicians,  soldiers,  sailors,  national  guards,  priests,  tradesmen  in 
seneral,  and  upholsterers  in  particular,  not  to  mention  theatrical 
journals,  and  so  forth,  whose  editors  are  more  numerous  than  their 
subscribers. 

Educational  books  appear  to  have  been  exclusively  produced  by 
the  members  of  the  educating  body,  and  production  in  this  depart- 
ment has  been  so  active,  that  we  find  in  a  single  year  (1840)  no  less 
a  number  than  five  hundred  and  one  works  on  these  subjects  pre- 


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FOB  FIFTEEN  TEARS.  459 

sented  to  the  university.  Orammars  have  multiplied  from  day  to 
clay^  but  are  chiefly  distinguished  by  the  barbarisms  and  solecisms^ 
from  which  even  their  titles  are  often  not  free.  Not  a  few  unnatu- 
ral professors  of  languages  have  shewn  a  disposition  to  attack  the 
syntax  on  which  they  have  been  nurtured ;  other  innovators  have 
wished  to  abolish  orthography  (perhaps  to  save  the  trouble  of  learn- 
ing  it)  ;  but,  in  abandoning  regular  government,  it  appears  they  fell 
into  anarchy,  and  having  split  into  two  hostile  factions,  one  of  which 
insisted  on  writing  mm  with  an  I,  another  with  an  a — moa— the  sys- 
tem has  fallen  to  the  ground. 

Ancient  literature,  against  which,  towards  1830,  there  was  a 
strong  re-action«  has  more  recently  recovered  some  favour ;  exten* 
sive  collections  of  classical  authors,  Latin  and  Greek,  have  been 
well  received,  and  the  character  of  translations  has  been  greatly 
improved. 

in  Foreign  literature,  the  Parisians  have  made  great  progress. 
Scarcely  twenty-five  years  ago,  it  would  have  been  thought  beneath 
their  dignity  to  admire  the  chef  d'oeuvres  of  other  nations ;  they 
applied  to  intellectual  productions  the  prohibitive  system  in  all  its 
rigour.  They  have  now  proclaimed  free  trade,  "  liaving  at  length 
understood  that  a  nation  without  intellectual  commerce,  is  a  link 
broken  from  the  great  chain."  This  branch  of  literature  divides 
itself  into  two ;  the  one  erudite  and  historical,  comprising  the  works 
of  the  oriental  nations,  the  other  those  of  modem  Eur<^pe.  The 
former  works  have  issued  first  from  the  royal  presses,  and  their 
editors,  besides  filling  that  office,  have,  by  translations,  made  their 
countrvmen  acquainted  with  the  poetry  of  China,  Persia,  Arabia, 
and  Hindostan,  and  have,  it  is  said,  studied  in  their  minutest  details 
the  reliffion,  philosophy,  sciences,  arts,  and  manners  of  those  nations. 
"  Let  what  may  be  said  of  German  erudition,"  says  M.  Louandre, 
"  that  of  France  has  shewn  itself  no  less  exact,  patient,  and  inven- 
tive. Silvestre  de  Sacy  and  Abel  Remusat  have  shewn  themselves 
true  encyclopsedists ;  M.  Burnouf  has  reconstructed  languages,  as 
Cuvier  reconstructed  a  world," 

Whilst  Oriental  scholars  have  been  traversing  Asia,  others  have 
been  no  less  busy  with  their  European  neighbours.  The  writers, 
ancient  and  modern,  of  Italy,  have  long  been  cordially  welcomed ; 
of  Dante,  Uiere  have  been  published  in  Paris  nine  Itsiian  editions, 
iknd  ten  French  translations.  The  literature  of  Spain  has  also  re- 
cently attracted  attention,  and  not  only  have  the  heroes  of  Castile 
and  Andalusia  furnished  subjects  for  Parisian  dramatists,  and  her 
lyrical  writers  been  inspired  by  the  romanctro,  but  works  pre- 
viously known  in  France  only  by  imitations  more  or  less  unfaithful, 
have  been  familiarised  to  general  readers  bv  accurate  translations. 

German  literature  has  been  also  the  object  of  copious  criticism 
and  translation,  and  these  peaceful  conquests  beyond  the  Rhine 
have  had  a  marked  influence  on  the  intellectual  progress  of  France. 

Of  all  foreign  literature,  however,  the  English  makes  the  most 
important  figure  in  the  catalogue.  In  fif^n  years  there  have  been 
published  in  Paris,  seven  editions  of  the  complete  works  of  Byron, 
and  ten  of  French  translations  of  them ;  Milton  has  been  reprinted 
four  times  in  six  years.  As  for  the  novelists,  the  appetite  of  the 
Parisians  for  this  kind  of  fodder  is,  it  appears,  so  insatiable  that,  in 
spite  of  the  incessant  activity  of  their  native  production,  they  have 


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460  LITERARY   StATISTTCS  OP   FRANCE 

sdll,  within  tlie  period  under  consideration,  devoured  of  Cooper^ 
thirty-one  English,  and  forty-two  French  editions ;  of  Bulwer,  fifty- 
nine  French  and  English;  and  of  Hoflman,  Cervantes,  Fielding, 
Sterne,  Richardson,  quantum  suff, :  as  to  Walter  Scott,  people  have 
left  off  coantinff. 

A  considerable  number  of  persons  subsist  entirely  on  the  transla- 
tion of  foreign  novels ;  and  of  these  benefactors  to  their  country, 
one  lately  dead,  a  M.  de  Fauconpret,  had  translated  no  less  than  800 
volumes. 

Next  to  England  in  the  novel  market,  comes  America,  then  Ger- 
many, Italy,  Russia,  and  lastly,  Holland  and  Sweden.  Spain  stands 
on  about  the  same  footing  as  China,  each  of  them  having  furnished 
four  or  five  romances  in  fifteen  years. 

The  poetical  harvest  in  France  during  the  eleven  years  from  1830 
to  1841,  appears  to  have  been  enormous.  Four  thousand  three  hun- 
dred and  eighty -three  volumes,  or  pamphlets  of  poetry,  made  their 
appearance,  of  course  without  counting  fugitive  verses  scattered 
through  newspapers,  &c. 

Most  of  the  literary  men  of  Paris  have,  it  seems,  made  their 
d^but  by  poetry,  more  or  less  successful,  but  the  majority  have  sub- 
sequently found  their  way  to  prose ;  and  the  sentiments  of  the  youth- 
ful verses  often  form  an  amusing  contrast  to  the  prose  of  more 
mature  age.  Thus  the  first  performance  of  M.  Berryer,  was  a  sort 
of  epithalamium  on  the  entrance  of  Napoleon  and  Maria  Louisa  into 
Pans,  which  terminates  with — 

<'  Vivez,  prince !  vivez,  pour  faire  det  heureux 
Tige  en  h^ros  feconde,  arbre  majestueuz. 
Deploy ez  vos  rameauz,  et  croiBsant  d*age  en  age, 
Prot^gez  runivers  sous  votre  auguste  ombrage.** 

Oh  Phoebus  Apollo !  you  have  much  to  answer  for. 

To  M.  Louis  filanc  the  world,  it  seems,  is  indebted  for  verses  on 
the  Hospital  of  the  Invalides,  and  for  a  poem  on  Mirabeau,  in  four 
hundred  and  twenty  vers  libres ;  to  M.  Orlolan,  professor,  now  at 
the  school  of  law,  for  a  collection  of  poems  entitled  "  Les  Enfantines." 
M.  Fulchiron  has  been  found  guilty  of  several  tragedies  and  poems,— 
"Saul,"  "The  Siege  of  Paris,"  "Argillon,"  "Piaarro/'&c.  M.Guerard, 
one  of  the  most  eminent  representatives  of  French  erudition,  obtained 
admission  to  the  Academy  by  a  poem  called  "  La  Mort  de  Bayard  f 
M.  Genoud,  a  political  allegory  called  "The  Delivrance  d'Israel;" 
M.  TAbbe  de  Veypiere,  by  a  volume  of  sentimental  poetry,  "  that 
might  have  been  written  by  one  of  the  elegant  abb^  of  the  seven- 
teenth century."  But  while  the  prose  writers  have  thus  mostly 
tried  the  ascent  of  Parnassus  at  least  once  in  their  lives,  the  poets 
who  have  gained  for  themselves  a  permanent  settlement  at  the  top 
of  the  mountain,  have  scarcely  established  themselves  there  before 
they  aspire  to  descend,  and  trace  their  furrow  on  the  humbler  fields 
of  prose. 

Among  the  above-named  poetical  productions  we  find  usually 
every  year  three  or  four  epics,  whose  authors,  however,  show  them- 
selves rather  erudite  than  inventive,  and  deal  more  with  the  facts  of 
history  than  with  the  creations  of  the  imagination.  Didactic  poetry 
yields  annually  six  or  eight  volumes  ;  idyls,  allegories,  and  heroic 
poems,  and  the  grand  odes,  once  so  much  admired,  "  beginning  with 


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FOR  FIFTEEN  YEAllfi.  461 

an  invocation^  and  ending  with  enthusia«m/'  have  departed  this  life, 
and  are  no  more  teen,  even  at  the  Academy.  In  many  of  the  old- 
fashioned  branches  of  poetical  manufacture,  also,  such  as  the  epics 
aforesaid,  the  producers  are  supposed  to  be  more  numerous  than  the 
consumers,  and  the  former  mav,  we  are  told,  esteem  themselves  for* 
tunate  if  they  sell  a  dozen  copies,  af\er  having  printed  and  published 
at  their  own  expense.  Verily  great  must  be  the  faith  of  these  mar- 
tyrs in  what  they  sometimes  call  their  mission.  Of  political  poems, 
such  as  the  "  Epitre  a  Sidi  Mahmoud,"  and  the  •*  Villeliade,"  eighty 
thousand  copies  have  been  sold  in  three  years.  Personal  and  violent 
satires  have  also  been  very  successful ;  some  of  these  were  secretly 
printed,  and  dated  from  Marathon,  the  first  year  of  the  republic. 

Most  of  the  trades  have  in  France  their  poetical  representatives. 
For  the  hair-dressers,  for  instance,  there  are  MJM.  Jasmin  Daveau 
and  Corsal ;  and  carpenters  and  the  cabinet-makers,  bakers  and  shoe- 
makers, gardeners  and  omnibus-owners,  masons  and  embroiderers, 
all  send  deputies  to  the  poetical  assembly. 

The  quality  and  the  aspects  presented  by  this  poetry  have  been,  of 
eourse,  verv  various,  and  ideas  and  views  the  most  opposite  and  in- 
consistent have  come  into  continual  collision.  The  horizon  changes 
every  moment,  and  the  reader  is  carried,  as  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind,  through  antiquity^  the  middle  ages,  and  the  renaissance,  to  the 
present  day.  When  the  revolution  of  1830  broke  out,  the  revolution 
in  literature  was  already  at  its  height,  and  in  1834  there  was  perfect 
anarchy.  Each  day  brought  forth  new  theories  and  verses  trans- 
gressing all  known  rules.  All  kinds  of  whims,  extravagances,  and 
barbarisms  were  by  turns  erected  into  systems,  and  temples  were 
raised  to  all  sorts  of  literary  deformities,  as  by  the  ancients  to  all  the 
vices.  The  once- worshipped  names  of  the  past  were  torn  down 
without  mercy,  and  others,  hitherto  unknown,  resuscitated  to  receive 
their  apotheosis,  and  '*  As  it  happens  in  all  imeules,  people  who  desired 
only  fvise,  enlightened,  necessary  reforms,  could  not  make  themselves 
heard."  The  old  classics,  we  are  told,  looked  down  on  the  hosts  of 
innovators  with  a  terror  like  that  of  the  old  emigrants  of  '92  looking 
down  from  the  heights  of  Goblentz  on  the  triumphant  march  of  the 
revolution,  and  proclaimed  the  chiefs  of  the  new  school  to  be  literary 
Antichrists,  whose  coming  foretold  the  last  day.  Four  or  five  years 
later,  however,  for  things  move  quickly  in  France^  the  partizans  of 
the  ancient  regime  had  become  in  a  great  measure  reconciled  to  the 
revolutionists,  and  they  on  their  parts  had  lightened  their  vessel  of 
extravagances  that  might  have  caused  it  to  founder. 

As  for  the  poets  themselves,  in  1825,  they  were  melancholy  and 
Bjrronian ;  in  1830,  political,  devoted  to  the  cause  of  humanity,  am- 
bitious of  ruling  the  world,  and  comparing  themselves  to  the  pillar 
of  fire  that  guided  the  Israelites  across  the  Desert ;  in  1834,  they 
sung  despair  and  death ;  in  1838  they  sought  refuge  in  *'  the  ancient 
faith ;"  in  1844  both  despair  and  rehgious  consolation  were  forgot- 
ten, and  they  chanted  the  seductive  charms  of  life,  *'  of  the  world, 
the  fiesh,  and  the  devil." 

From  the  poets,  following  the  bibliographical  arrangement,  we 
come  to  romancists.  These  form  a  group  of  about  a  hundred  writers, 
of  whom  about  fifteen  are  women.  The  average  number  of  their 
productions,  as  stated  by  M.  Louandre,  falls  short  of  what,  from 
their  known  fertility,  might  have  been  anticipated..    But  the  two 


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462  LITERARY   STATISTICS  OP  ^TIANCE 

hundred  and  ten  new  novels  published  every  year  would  be  enor*- 
mously  increased  by  the  addition  of  the  almost  countless  host  of 
feuiUeton  novels.  Their  abundance  is  explained  by  the  nature  of  the 
demand,  and  the  character  of  the  readers  addressed.  Every  day 
something  new  is  required  to  awaken  the  curiosity  of  those  who  read 
with  the  intention  of  never  troubling  themselves  to  thinks  if  they 
can  help  it>  and  the  firm  resolution  of  learning  nothing.  The  idle 
class,  wnich  desires  orAj  to  be  amused,  always  numerous  in  France, 
is  especially  so  in  Pans,  where  there  are  many  who  esteem  them- 
selves rich  enough  to  do  nothing,  yet  who  are  too  poor  to  take  part 
in  expensive  pleasures,  and  who  have  no  other  resource  against  ennui 
than  the  promenade,  the  cafi,  and  novel-reading, 

French  historical  novels  have,  of  course,  been  mostly  imiutions  of 
Walter  Scott ;  but  the  writers  seem  to  have  forgotten  that  to  revive 
in  fiction  the  realities  of  history,  it  is  at  least  necessarv  to  know  the 
past,— and  this  is  precisely  what  was  wanting  to  the  disciples  of  the 
author  of  '^Ivanhoe;"  who,  when  they  ought  to  have  seized  the 
spirit  of  past  ages,  contented  themselves  with  copying  their  out^ 
ward  forms;  and,  accordingly,  very  few  of  these  productions-— 
"  Notre  Dame  de  Paris,"  ^'Cinq  Mars,"  and  a  few  others,  have  taken 
permanent  rank. 

By  the  side  of  the  historical  we  find  the  maritime  novel,  also,  of 
course,  imitated  fVom  the  English ;  the  republican  novel,  bom  in 
1831  and  defunct  in  1835 ;  the  philanthropical,  the  religious-legiti- 
mist, the  Catholic,  the  anti-Catholic  novel,  in  which  the  Jesuits  play 
the  part  of  the  devil  in  the  old  mysteries.  And  there  is  also  the  ro- 
mance military,  the  romance  communist,  the  romance  conjugal— in 
which,  as  it  proceeds  from  a  masculine  or  feminine  pen,  a  husband  it 
the  victim  of  his  wife,  or  a  wife  the  victim  of  her  husbiaid.  French 
novelists  have  given  up  apparently  the  study  of  character  for  the 
study  of  vices ;  they  have  descended  to  the  very  lowest  steps  of  the 
social  scale ;  they  have  mingled  with  the  degraded,  the  dangerous, 
the  utterly  fallen ;  they  have  thrown  a  kind  of  glittering  gauze  over 
their  rags ;  they  have  lent  these  miserable  beings  arguments  to  justify 
their  fafl,  or  they  have  created  imaginarv  and  impossible  Fleurs-de- 
Maries,  as  in  other  classes  of  society  they  have  produced  femmes 
incomprises  and  inmariables.  Rogues,  bullies,  saarpers,  thieves, 
assassins,  have  been  described,  idealized,  and  defended  against  so- 
detv,  so  that  while  philanthropists  and  economists  were  occupied 
W]t£  the  reform  of  prisons,  the  novel-writers  were  doing  their  nest 
to  people  them.  Other  productions  there  are  whose  mere  titles  are 
sufficient,  '*  Une  Pecheresse,"  "Une  Sanction,"  "  Un  Flagrant  D^ 
lit,"  '^  Ce  que  Vierge  ne  doit  lire,"  &c. ;  but  of  this  mournful  and 
scandalous  department  of  literature  little  more  need  be  said,  as  a 
general  protest  has  arisen  against  it.  M.  Louandre  mentions  a 
species  of  this  genus,  which  he  calls  the  physiolog^al^  a  revival  from 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  '' worthy  of  its  audacious  predecessors." 
What  is  most  remarkable,  he  says,  in  these  productions  is,  that  not- 
withstending  their  defiance  of  decency,  the  writers  would  fain  take 
on  themselves  the  character  of  social  reformers. 

From  the  physiology  of  individuals,  the  same  writers  have  passed 
to  that  of  cities,  and  obliged  the  world  with  ''Paris  at  Night," 
"  Paris  at  Table,"  " Paris  on  Horseback,"  " Literary  Paris,"  ''Mar* 
ried  Paris,"  &c.;  and  thence  to  that  of  nations,  with  ''The  English 


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FOR  FIFTEEN   YEARS.  463 

painted  by  themselves/' and  so  on;  and,  lastly,  *'Thc  Physiology  of 
Fhysiologists."  Passing  these,  we  come  upon  a  crowd  of  ambiguous 
productions, — pictures  of  manners,  and  books  of  the  rose-coloured 
order, — keepsakes  and  tales,  interlaced  with  verses,  and  illustrated 
with  vignettes,  and  others  to  which  the  *'  Livre  de  Cent  et  un  "  has 
served  as  a  model. 

But  there  was  yet  another  branch  of  the  manufacture  which  it 
was  thought  might  be  more  worked  to  greater  profit.  The  literature 
of  the  nursery  might  be  turned  to  better  account  than  heretofore, 
and  no  sooner  was  this  discovery  made  than  there  sprung  up  a  great 
crop  of  little  books  "  destined  for  the  amusement  and  instruction  of 
childhood  and  youth."  Fashionable  novelists,  and  writers  of  vaudc" 
villes,  even  Messrs.  De  Balzac,  Janin,  and  Dumas,  did  not  disdain 
to  address  an  infantine  audience,  and  the  book-trade  speculated  on 
the  small  public  as  it  had  done  on  the  great  one.  Juvenile  Keepsakes, 
and  gaily-decorated  works,  in  which  illustration  overflowed  and  almost 
swallowed  up  the  text — ^these  descended  in  a  golden  shower.  The 
so-called  religious  houses  of  education  have  entered  into  competition 
with  lay-writers  in  this  department,  and  have  sent  forth  a  crowd  of 
Hisioriettes,  published  under  episcopal  authority.  They  have  even 
admitted  into  their  ''Little  Catholic  Libraries,"  writers  pitilessly 
proscribed  some  years  ago,  and  expurgated,  for  this  purpose,  not 
only  Walter  Scott,  but,  what  is  ratoer  a  more  difficult  matter.  Oil 
Bias !  M.  I'Abbe  Pinard,  who  has  performed  many  of  these  literary 
exorcisms,  has  even  presented  his  countrymen  with  an  ''Arabian 
Nights'  Entertainments/'  in  which  the  Sultana  Schehezerade  is 
transformed  into  the  teacher  of  a  ladies'  boarding-school. 

The  literati  of  Paris  have  seized  on  the  principles  of  association 
and  co-operation,  which  have  been  rightly  extolled  as  so  advanta^ 
seous  in  industrial  undertakings  connected  with  the  labour  of  the 
hands,  and  applied  them  also  to  those  of  the  mind.  Companies 
have  been  formed  among  men  and  women  of  letters,  for  the  produc- 
tion of  works  in  which  the  gentlemen  charged  themselves  with  the 
terrible  passions,  and  the  ladies  with  the  subtle  observations  and  de- 
licate emotions  of  the  heart ;  and  these  companies  have  taken  into 
their  service  editorial  clerks,  who  have  been  allowed  a  share  in  the 
concern.  One  writer  (M.  Alexandre  Dumas),  has  sometimes  em- 
ployed no  less  than  sixty-three  journeymen,  or  collaborators,  as 
thev  are  poHtely  called;  so  that  the  bibliographers  have  been  at 
their  wits'  end  to  know  to  whom  a  work  was  to  be  attributed,  and 
publishers  have  sometimes  stipulated  that  the  whole  of  a  manuscript 
should  be  in  the  author's  own  hand-writing. 

In  1836,  the  novel-writers  made  their  great  irruption  into  the 
newspapers,  an  invasion  which  has  created  a  disastrous  epoch  in  the 
literary  history  of  France ;  disastrous,  first  to  those  who  adopted  the 
system,  as  imposing  on  them  ruinous  expenses  to  secure  the  co-ope- 
ration of  this  or  that  writer  most  in  fashion  at  the  moment ;  dis- 
astrous in  a  literary  point  of  view,  as  usurping  the  place  of  se- 
rious criticism ;  disastrous,  also,  in  a  moral  point  of  view,  for  the 
fetdUeion-romBXice  has  attacked  and  degraded  all  that  is  worthy  of 
respect — the  family,  women,  religious  faith — it  has  calumniated 
human  nature,  and  cast  on  society  the  responsibility  of  the  perversity 
and  vices  of  the  individual ;  disastrous  to  the  national  honour  of  the 
French,  for  it  has  represented  them  in  the  eyes  of  Europe  as  a  de- 

VOL.  XXIII.  M   M 


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464  LITEBAEY    STATIgTICS   OF  FRANCE. 

moralised,  enervated  people,  sincere  in  no  worship  but  that  of  plea- 
sure or  gold,  and  with  no  activity  but  in  evil-doing,  and  fatal  also 
to  the  dignitv  of  letters,  for  the  feuUleUm^romance  has  mostly  but 
one  object,  that  of  realising  as  speedily  as  possible  a  large  pecuniary 
profit. 

Is  it  wonderful  that  in  the  pursuit  of  enormous  gains,  the  inte^ 
rests  of  art  should  have  been  forgotten  ?  *'  But  art  avenges  her- 
self," says  M.  Louandre ;  *'  for  the  mercantile  period  in  an  author's 
life  is  marked  by  an  inevitable  cessation  of  growth  in  his  talents,  and, 
not  unfrequently,  by  a  rapid  decay,  so  that,  singularly  enough,  we 
must  seek  generally  in  the  commencement  of  an  author's  career  for 
his  best  productions." 

We  have  scarcely  time  to  take  a  hasty  glance  at  the  statement  of 
facts  connected  with  the  dramatic  literature  of  the  period  in  question, 
but  a  few  figures  will  give  a  general  idea  of  its  condition. 

The  register  of  the  Society  of  Dramatic  Authors  presents,  it 
seems,  460  names,  but  the  number  of  actually  living  writers,  whose 
names  figure  from  time  to  time  upon  the  play-bills,  amounts  to 
nearly  900 ;  and,  if  we  include  in  the  list  the  authors  of  tragedies, 
comedies,  and  vaudevilles,  which  have  never  been  acted,  it  will  ap- 
pear that  this  branch  of  industry  has  never  been  more  active.  In 
the  dramatic  workshops,  also,  the  principles  of  co-operation  and 
division  of  labour,  so  useful  in  all  manufactures,  has  been  extensively 
put  in  practice.  Slight  little  comedies  and  vaudevilles  have  two  or 
three  names  appended  to  them,  as  for  instance  '*  Scribe  —  &  Co.," 
or  the  names  of  Uie  less  important  junior  partners  are  sunk  altoge- 
ther, and  a  piece  on  which  he  has  really  bestowed  only  a  few  finish- 
ing touches,  comes  forth  under  the  hand  and  seal  of  the  head  of  the 
firm.  Not  fame,  but  lucrative  success,  is  the  great  object  aimed  at. 
The  number  of  new  pieces  produced  in  fifteen  years,  exclusive  of 
150  played  onlv  in  the  provmces,  are  stated  at  3,789,  of  which  the 
greater  part,  of  course,  are  of  a  slight  and  easy  kind.  Among  dra- 
matists and  novel-writers  we  find  the  same  pretension  to  touch  on 
every  possible  subject — history,  politics,  socialism, — and  here,  as  be- 
fore, exaggeration,  disorder,  contempt  of  study,  and  often  of  decency; 
the  same  use  and  abuse  of  the  terrible,  the  criminal,  and  the  odious. 

The  reprehensible  conduct  of  the  authors  of  these  reckless  com- 
positions needs  no  comment.  In  large  cities  there  must  be,  or,  at 
all  events,  there  always  have  been,  large  classes  to  whom  such 
recreations  are  as  attractive  and  as  poisonous  as  the  liquid  fire 
of  the  gin-palace;  but  nowhere  can  they  be  more  dangerous 
than  among  the  excitable  and  highly-imitative  population  of  Paris^ 
Fortunately,  there  have  been  symptoms  observable  of  the  authors 
in  question  having  become  conscious  of,  and  regretting,  the  mis- 
chief they  have  been  doing.  From  this,  one  would  hope  the  distance 
would  not  be  great  towards  amendment ;  but  now  that  society  and 
literature  are  once  more  plunged  into  the  fiery  crater  of  revolution, 
it  is  impossible  to  foresee  what  precise  form  either  is  next  to  assume, 
or  what  kind  of  products  will  issue  from  that  seething  cauldron. 
But  whatever  strange  shapes  we  may  behold,  there  will,  probably, 
be  few  or  none  which  have  not  been  seen  before,  as  shadows  in  the 
magic  glass  of  the  imagination. 


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465 


"  ARE  THERE  THOSE  WHO  READ  THE  FUTURE  r 

A  TIMUB  OF  8TBANOB  0OIN0IBBN0B8. 

BT  THB   AUTHOB  OF  '^  BXPBBIBN0B8  OF  A  GAOL  OHAPLAIN." 

^  I  can't  iftY  the  was  an  agreeable  penoa :  for  in  society  her  main  aim  wai  to 
appear  wiser  tnan  her  ndjEhbcurs." 

liADT  Maet  W.  MovtAou's  opinioti  o/Madtm^  la  Camt49$$  de  F— 41. 

Miss  Stabki  was  farions.  And  th«  more  because  Lady  Nelson  reso- 
lutely withheld  all  details  of  the  foreigner's  conversation. 

'*  he  satisfied,"  was  her  sole  comment ;  **  the  import  of  the  interview 
is  singular  enough.  But  not  even  to  my  son*  will  I  disclose  its  bearing. 
For  the  present  I  hold  it  sacred." 

''  Say  you  so  V*  murmured  Miss  Starke,  $otto  voce,  '^  I  will  fathom  it ; 
and  Miss  de  Crespigny,  too,  riddle  as  she  is  to  myself  and  others.  When 
did  a  mystery  baffle  me  I" 

The  perseverance  of  masculine  ladies  of  a  certain  age,  in  the  pcUh  of 
private  investigation  is  incredible.  Miss  Starke's  indignation  Iwd  not 
long  to  sleep.  It  was  speedily  aroused  by  another  transaction.  A 
rumour  became  rife  through  Sunny  Bay  that  Widow  Hussey  had  sus* 
tained  **  a  dreadful  check ;"  the  information  given  by  the  <^  Wise  Lady  *' 
to  her  humble  inquirer  "  had  almost  been  the  death  of  her  I " 

Miss  Starke  caught  at  this  information,  and  speedily  acted  upon  it. 
She  donned,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  her  riding-hat  and  blue  habit ; 
and  was  soon  striding  on  her  way  to  the  widow's  domicile. 

Widow  Hussey  was  a  confectioner  on  a  small  scale;  but  among  the 
juveniles  of  considerable  reputation.  Her  husband  was  a  fisherman, 
and  generally  successful ;  so  that  the  joint  produce  of  the  fingers  of 
Hussey — male  and  female—brought  in  a  very  respectable  income.  They 
were  *^  well  to  do,"  in  this  wicked  world  I 

One  luckless  mornings  Hussey,  the  male,  was  missing.  He  had  been 
out  the  entire  previous  day  with  a  comrade,  fishing.  There  was  a  light 
breeze ;  and  mackerel  were  reported  to  have  been  seen  off  Sunny-bay 
bar.  Thither  Hussey  and  his  companion  hastened.  Some  hours  after- 
wards their  boat  was  discovered  floating  keel  upwards ;  but  no  trace  of 
the  unfortunate  fishermen  could  be  found.  The  common  belief  was,  that 
their  boat  had  been  capsized  by  some  sudden  squall,  and  that  its  occu- 
pants had  met  a  watery  grave. 

Mrs.  Hussey  was  inconsolable.  She  deplored  "the  death  of  the 
best  of  husbands.'^  She  avowed  that  'Mile  was  a  burde«i  to  her." 
She  declared  that  she  '*  anxiously  looked  forward  to  the  time  when 
she  should  be  re-united  to  her  faithful  partner."  She  maintained 
that  she  had  '< nothing  left  upon  this  earth  to  live  for!"     She  re- 

*  Captain  Josiah  Neebit,  R.  N.,  Lady  Nelson^s  son  by  her  first  husband,  a  yery 
gallant  officer.  To  him  Lord  Ndson  was  indebted  for  the  preservation  of  his  life 
at  the  attack  on  Santa  Crua,  in  the  island  of  Teneriffe.  There,  severely  wounded, 
and  almost  helpless  from  pain  and  loss  of  blood,  his  services  would  unquestionably 
have  closed  but  for  his  brave  stepson,  who,  by  an  act  of  Uie  most  gaUant  daring 
interposed,  and  at  great  personal  hazard  conveyed  him  to  a  boat.  Ah  !  could  he 
have  foreseen  the  after-experience  of  neglect  and  indifference  which  his  mother 
had  to  endure  I    How  mercifully  is  the  future  veiled  from  us ! 

X  M  2 


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466  ABE  THERE  THOSE 

peated  in  the  most  dolorous  tones  that  *^  since  the  loss  of  her  angel 
nnsband,  Hussey,"  she  had  '*  never  had  one  happy  moment.''  She  stood 
to  it  that ^' life  was  a  wilderness;  and  that  nothing  could  cheer  her; 
no !  not  even  what  she  heard  in  that  dear,  blessed  buildings  "  The  Little 
Revenger  Night  and  day  she  was  comfortless,  ^'past  cure^  past  hope» 
past  help!*'  Ail  Sunny  Bay  was  enchanted.  Her  grief  was  described 
as  ^<  matchless^"  her  'lamentations "  as  doing  <<  honour  to  her  sex." 
Her  line  of  '^  conduct  was  highly  commendable."  She  was  called  <*  a 
devoted  widow ; "  and  ^'  the  most  affectionate-hearted  woman  "  in  the 
whole  county  of  Devon,  one  that  "  deserved  marked  and  liberal  encou- 
ragement."    And  this  she  received. 

Some  eight  months  after  Hussey's  disappearance,  the  patrons  of  the 
forlorn  one  were  astounded  by  intelligence  that  their  protigie  was  again 
about  to  be  linked  in  Hymen*s  bonds — ^her  partner  a  smart  young 
journeyman.  All  Sunny  Bay  was  scandalized  I  What  a  dreadful  in- 
stance of  inconstancy  I  What  frightful  fickleness  I  What  a  violation 
of  decorum !  What  forgetfulness  of  the  dead  I  The  married  ladies 
said^  one  and  all,  that  "  Uiey  could  not  forgive  her."  The  single  ladies 
that  "  they  could  not  have  imagined  such  vacillation  possible." 

Mrs.  Hussey  was  in  terrible  disgrace.  But  the  culprit  was  not  pre- 
cipitate. Before  she  finally  fixed  the  day  for  her  second  nuptials,  she 
sought,  and  obtained,  an  interview  with  Hortense;  and  begged  her 
counsel  and  opinion. 

"  On  what  point  ?  "  said  "  the  Wise  Woman,"  sharply,  crowding  a 
mass  of  papers  into  her  writing-desk. 

<<  On  my  paying  a  second  visit  to  Littleham  Church.  I  've  a  mind, 
marm,  to  become  a  wedded  wife  once  more." 

<<  What!  would  you  belong  to  two  husbands?"  said  Hortense^  quickly* 

The  enquirer  was  startled  in  her  turn. 

"  I  'm  thinking,"  she  began  after  a  pause — '<  I  'm  thinking  of  being 
married  again." 

'<  You  had  better  entertain  no  thoughts  of  the  kind  I"  was  the  brusque 
reply. 

*<0h  goodness  gracious  I  Oh  I  gracious  goodness  I  Why?  pray 
speak :  why?" 

"  You  '11  be  tried  for  bigamy  if  you  do." 

The  candidate  for  poligamy  looked  reproachfully  towards  her  tor- 
mentor, and  exclaimed  : 

**  Heaven  forbid !  I  never  was  l^rought  before  judge  or  jury  in  my 
life  I     And  as  to  my  dear  first  husband — " 

*^  First  husband  I "  interrupted  Hortense ;  '^  your  present  husband  I 
He's  alive  I" 

<'  He 's  dead  1 "  replied  the  other  with  decided  and  desperate  firmness ; 
*'  he 's  quite  dead — dead  to  a  certainty — dead  months  ago.  Why,  Mr. 
Cogbody  preached  his  funeral  sermon  at '  The  Little  Revenge.' " 

''He's  alive  I"  reiterated  Hortense;  "and  will  return  and  claim 
you  I" 

"  Never  in  this  world  I  Never  I  The  sea  holds  him  too  fast.  I  'm 
free  ;  quite  free  I  And  as  for  the  young  man  who  has  offered  to  me, 
I  *m  vastly  disposed  " — 

**  To  marry  him,  and  take  your  chance  of  transportation,"  interposed 
the  foreigner,  finishing  off  the  sentence  in  her  own  way. 

At  the  mention  of  transportation,  the  perplexed  confectioner,  to  use 
her  own  words,  "  swounded  where  she  stood  I" 

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WHO  READ  THE  FUTURE?  467 

To  these  various  details,  Miss  Starke  listened  with  an  ominous  and 
condemnatory  frown.  When  concluded,  she  tapped  her  riding  hat  with 
a  decided  air,  and  gaye  her  long  blue  habit  a  violent  twitch'^unerring 
indications  of  severe  displeasure.  ''  The  natural,"  exclaimed  she,  **  1 
love !  But  the  supernatural  I  abhor.  Now  mark  me :  this  system  of 
terror  shall  be  put  down ;  and  this  woman  De  Crespigny  silenced.** 

'*  But  as  to  my  wedding,  marm  ?*'  cried  Mrs.  Hussey,  *<  as  to  my  wed- 
ding, marm,  how  would  you  advise  me?" 

"  Marry  P  said  Miss  Starke,  oracularly.     •'  Marry.** 

'*  But  my  man 's  afeard  now  I  He  seems  shy  and  timid  like  I  Talks 
of  transportation  and  consequences  I " 

"Then  spurn  him  I** 

And  with  another  twitch  and  another  tap,  Miss  Starke  sailed  indig- 
nantly away. 

Miss  Starke  was  resolved  on  a  coup  cTitat !  Averse  to  appear  per- 
sonally in  the  affair,  more  particularly  as  the  topic  of  marriage  was  mixed 
up  with  it,  she  prevailed  on  Dr.  Cave  to  assume  the  guise  of  her  cham- 
pion, and  to  start  as  a  *<  redresser  of  grievances."  Dr.  Cave — ^he  lived 
m  North-street,  and  had  no  slight  impediment  in  his  speech — would 
in  these  days  have  been  styled  a  Whig,  and  something  more.  He 
was  an  ardent  politician :  and  viewed  all  public  events  wiUi  a  jaundiced 
eye, 

''  The  nation  was  on  the  eve  of  bankruptcy.  Napoleon  would  in  six 
months  be  in  England.  We  had  no  longer  a  fragment  of  our  boasted 
constitution.  Pitt  had  frittered  it  away,  piecemeal  Our  army  on  the 
continent  would  be  sacri6ced.  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley  was  no  general— 
of  that  he  was  quite  convinced  I  Spain  was  lost—irredeemably.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  on  the  point.  Three  months  hence  and  the  whole 
British  force  would  we  driven  by  French  bayonets  into  the  sea.  The 
sun  of  England  had  set:  and  she  would  soon  be  a  byword  among 
nations."  Such  were  Dr.  Cave's  oracular  assertions.  There  never 
was  a  more  determined  croaker. 

Such  was  the  party  who,  at  Miss  Starke's  bidding,  called  on  Mr. 
Hull  of  Marpool,  the  acting  magistrate  of  the  district,  to  disclose  to  him 
Hortense  de  Crespigny*s  iniquities,  and  to  press  for  some  magbterial 
notice  of  them. 

The  justice  listened  with  admirable  patience  to  the  doctor's  confused 
and  tedious  narrative,  closed  with  the  prayer  that  he  would  act  forth- 
wirth. 

"  Against  whom  ?  " 

"This  pretender." 

"  Certainly,  if  you  make  out  a  case  for  my  interference  ;  as  far,  how- 
ever, as  present  appearances  go,  I  ought  to  act  against  you  and  the  other 
simpletons  of  Sunny  Bay.** 

The  doctor  looked  surpassingly  irate. 

"  This  woman  is  a  talker,  flighty  I  should  imagine,  and  you  encourage 
her.  She  takes  no  fee,  uses  no  artifice,  there  is  no  invoking  of  Zamiel 
or  Mephistophiles,  no  recourse  to  any  nonsense  of  that  kind.  You  ask 
her  a  question.  She  looks  you  steadily  in  the  face,  and  answers  it.  If 
you  choose  to  regard  her  replies  as  gospel,  your*s  is  the  folly,  and  her's 
the  hearty  laugh,  which  she  must  enjoy  over  and  over  again  at  your 
credulity. 

The  doctor*s  colour  rose ;  and  he  b^an  to  stutter  most  surprisingly. 


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468  ARE  THBBE   THOSE 

"  Fl—fl— flighty  I"  he  gasped  out  at  length—"  fl— flighty,  say  you  ? 
she  knows  more  than  mo— -most  women  I " 

"  That  fcay  very  possibly  be,"  said  Mr.  Hull,  drily. 

"Her  views  of  goo — goo — government  are  so  extraordinary!"  per- 
sisted Dr.  Cave. 

'^  I  know  others  whose  notions  on  that  point  are  equally  erratic,'*  was 
the  oalm  rejoinder. 

"  Then  her  conduct  to  poor  Hussey  was  cruel,  nay  bar — ^bar — bar- 
barous. To  tell  a  lone,  weeping  widow  that  her  husband  was  alive,  and 
would,  by  and  bye,  claim  her  I      Essentially  and  unpardonably  wrong  I " 

^'  For  the  life  of  me  I  can't  see  that  I  One  would  imagine  a  weeping 
woman  would  deem  those  joyful  tidings  which  told  her  that  she  need  no 
longer  bemoan  the  dead — ^for  that  the  dead  was  really  lining  and  forth- 
coming!" 

"  But  Hussey  I  main — ^main -^maintain  is  dead." 

"  What  proof  have  you  of  his  death  ?  "  said  the  magistrate  pointedly. 
"  His  body  has  never  been  found.  No  one  has  come  forward,  that  I 
can  learn,  as  a  witness  to  Hussey's  last  moments.  How  know  you  for  a 
certainty  that  he  is  dead  V 

**  This  is  all  wrong!"  ejaculated  Doctor  Cave;  *' decidedly  and  de- 
plorably wrong  I  Wealthy  witches  are  to  be  permitted  to  sco— sco— 
scour  the  country  throughout  its  length  and  breadth,  harassing  people's 
feelings,  declaring  that  the  dead  are  alive,  and  driving  poor  ignorant 
creatures  half  frantic,  while  the  magistrate  declines  to  interfere.  It's 
all  wrong,  vitally  and  irredeemably  wrong." 

<'  Interfere  I  I  am  ready  to  interfere  the  moment  I  can  do  so  legally. 
The  liberty  of  the  subject  is  not  lightly  to  be  trifled  wi^h.  You  must 
yourself  see  that.  Dr.  Cave  ?  " 

''I  see  nothing  but  what  is  wr^— wr — ^wrongl"  responded  the  doctor, 
in  the  most  lugubrious  tones ;  ^  wrong  both  on  the  right  hand  and  on 
the  left  I  There  is  no  liberty  of  the  subject  None  whatever  I  Rtt 
demolished  that  during  his  tenure  of  office.  The  majesty  of  the  law  is 
known  no  longer.  Alas  I  for  England.  Her  sun  is  set  Her  children 
are  slaves.  Her  power  extinct  We  are  all  wrong!  hopelessly  and 
universally  wrong !" 

So  saying,  Dr.  Cave  retired  from  Marpool,  more  disgusted  than  ever 
with  **  tnings  in  general ;"  and  more  firmly  wedded — were  that  possible 
-—to  his  notion  that  magistrates  and  people,  law-makers  and  law- 
breakers, were  each  and  all  alike  wrong  I 

On  the  following  morning  but  one  an  agreeable  surprise  awaited  him. 
Miss  de  Crespigny  had  quitted  Sunny  Bay.  She  had,  it  appeared,  sat 
up  the  whole  of  itie  previous  night  burning  papers ;  and  at  four  in  the 
morning  had  started  for  Exet^.  Thence,  without  pausing  for  refresh- 
ment, she  had  posted  to  Plymouth.  At  that  busy  sea-port  all  trace  of 
her  was  lost  The  comments  occasioned  by  her  flight  were  curious. 
Some  held  that  she  was  crazy.  Others  that  she  was  a  spy  in  the  pay  of 
Lord  Sidmouth.  Some  affSscted  to  consider  her  an  agent  of  the  French 
government,  and  busily  employed  in  reporting  English  news  to  the  Em- 
peror's cabinet 

Altogether  there  was  a  mystery  about  her  which  none  could  IkUiom. 
And  what  added  to  it  was  a  statement  made  by  a  most  respectable  party, 
and  who  could  apparently  have  no  motive  to  mislead,  that  during  a  short 
visit  to  London,  he  saw  a  person  enter  the  foreign  office  in  Downing- 


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WHO  READ  THE   FUTURE?  469 

street,  who  he  could  swear  was  no  other  than  Miss  de  Crespigny.  He 
recognised  her  at  once.  But  she  was  on  this  occasion  attired  as  a  man. 
And  from  this  strange  and  startling  assertion  he  never  varied* 

Meanwhile  marvellous  changes  took  place.  The  Emperor  was  driven 
from  his  throne.  The  Bourbons  were  restored.  Peace  again  visited 
Europe.  The  prison  gave  up  its  captives,  and  among  those  who  re- 
turned was  the  long  lost  Hussey  I 

The  accoupt  he  gave  of  himself  was  simple  and  straightforward.  The 
beauty  of  the  day,  and  the  excellent  sport  they  met  with  had  tempted 
him  and  his  companion  far  beyond  Sunny  Bay  bar.  A  French  privateer 
espied  them,  lowered  a  boat,  manned  it,  and  captured  them.  They 
were  plundered  of  all  they  had,  and  lodged  in  a  French  prison.  His 
fare  had  been  hard  enough,  and  his  treatment  worse.  His  fellow- 
sufferer  had  sunk  under  it,  but  he,  sustained  by  hope,  lived  on.  He 
had  never  been  able  to  find  means  of  communicating  with  his  friends  in 
England,  but  he  had  never  despaired  of  reaching  her  shores  once  more. 

There  he  was  I  somewhat  thinned,  and  aged,  and  worn,  and  grey ; 
but  still  the  real,  veritable  Hussey  I  And  &ere,  tp  greet  him,  sat  his 
dame — ^happily  yet  unprovided  with  another  mate. 

All  this  was  speedily  communicated  to  Dr.  Cave.  He  grunted  and 
groaned  most  awfully.  And  when  his  informant  asked  him  his  opinion, 
gave  this  roost  unexpected  answer :  "  All  he  could  say  was,  it  was  ex- 
tremefy  wrong  /** 

Time  sped  on.  Yhe  Bourbons  were  restored,  and  expelled.  At 
least  the  elder  branch  of  that  dynasty  was  driven  from  the  throne  of 
France.  The  three  frightful  days  of  July  drew  on  I  and  the  horrors  of 
a  revolution  were  once  more  rife  in  the  streets  of  Paris.  And  Lady 
Nelson  was  present,  and  in  the  very  thick  of  it.  The  son  of  the 
mistress  of  the  hotel  where  she  resided  was  shot  almost  in  her  pre- 
sence. The  rifles  of  the  combatants  penetrated  the  room  where  the 
youthful  members  of  her  family  were  sitting.  The  servant  who  was 
waiting  on  them  was  shot  dead  by  their  side.  The  gensdarmerie  searched 
the  house  with  extraordinary  keenness  and  rigour,  because  they  were 
assured  some  member  of  the  Polignac  ministry  was  concealed  in  it,  and 
because  they  knew  full  well  the  intimacy  that  had  subsisted  between 
^'  the  Duchess  de  Berri  and  Miladi  Nelson." 

Searched  it  was  repeatedly,  minutely,  distressingly ;  but  no  Polignac 
had,  or  was  likely  then  to  have,  made  it  his  place  of  refuge.  Grief 
possessed  the  household.  It  was  as  had  been  foretold  her,  one  of  the 
most  wretched  days  of  the  widowed  peeress's  chequered  life.  She  had 
just  buried  her  son,  her  only  child,  him  who  had  been  so  true  to  her  in 
all  her  trials,  whose  dutiful  attachment  to  her  had  never  wavered,  and 
in  whose  affection  she  found  a  bahn  for  much  of  her  past  sorrow  and 
neglect  It  was  a  bitter  hour,  for  she  had  never  deemed  it  possible  she 
should  survive  him ;  and  quendiless  sorrow  for  his  loss  soon  brought 
her  to  the  grave. 

She  died,  generous  and  self-denying  woman  I  truly  and  literally  of  a 
broken  heart. 

But  the  question  still  remains  unanswered — ^where  was  Miss  de 
Crespigny  ?  and  who  was  she  ?     An  enigma  to  this  hour  I 


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470 


ROBERT  EMMETT  AND  ARTHUR  AYLMER; 
OR,    DUBLIN    IN    1803. 

BY  W.  H.   MAXWELL, 
AUTHOB   OF   '^BTOBIEB  OF  WATBBLOO/'   &C. 

Throughout  the  morning  of  the  2drd  of  June,  1803,  strange  and 
confused  rumours  were  prevalent  in  the  Irish  capital — vague  whisper- 
ings were  interchanged  that  treason  was  abroad  ;  all  shook  their  heads 
suspiciously,  but  none  ventured  to  point  out  the  quiver  from  which 
the  arrow  should  be  discharged,  or  name  a  probable  period  for  the 
expected  explosion. 

It  would  be  idle  to  suppose  that  coming  events,  known  to  all  be- 
sides, were  concealed  from  the  executive,  and  that  for  several  pre- 
ceding days  their  employis  had  not  assured  the  government  that  an 
imeute  might  be  momentarily  expected.  The  information,  however, 
did  not  come  directly  through  the  Vidocq  of  the  day;  and  it  is  more 
probable  it  did  not  suit  Major  Sirr's  purpose  to  disclose  his  know- 
ledge of  the  conspiracy  until  it  had  become  more  extended  and  ma- 
tured. 

A  wilder  scheme  was  never  devised  by  a  mad  Enthusiast ;  and  how 
Emmett  could  have  carried  on  his  preparations  undiscovered  as  he  did, 
and  to  the  very  evening  of  the  insurrection,  is  astonishing.  His  ar* 
senal — a  deserted  malt-house — was  situated  in  the  heart  of  a  district 
densely  populated ;  many  persons  were  employed  in  fabricating  wea- 
pons, 611ing  cartridges,  and  forming  hand-grenades;  numbers  were 
seen  entering  and  departing  from  a  building  which  for  years  had  been 
unoccupied ;  and  yet  this  unaccountable  circumstance  appears  neither 
to  have  excited  suspicion  nor  provoked  inquiry,  nor  did  an  accidental 
explosion  of  gunpowder  create  more  alarm  than  the  disappearance  of 
a  drunken  tailor,  who  had  been  kidnapped  and  confined  in  the  dep6t 
to  make  a  general's  uniform  for  the  chief  conspirator. 

Robert  Emmett  was  a  gentleman  by  birth,  well  educated,  and  pos- 
sessed talents  of  the  highest  order ;  his  personal  appearance  was  very 
favourable,  his  manner  polished,  and  his  disposition  kind  and  gene- 
rous. But  on  one  subject  he  was  decidedly  monomaniac,  and  that 
was,  in  his  enthusiastic  attachment  to  what  he  fancied  was  civil  li- 
berty. In  1798  he  was  obliged  to  quit  the  country ;  no  ohange,  how- 
ever, "  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  his  dream,"  and  he  returned  to  Ireland 
early  in  1808,  not  shaken,  but  madly  confirmed  in  the  wildest  theories 
of  ultra- republicanism.  Th6  impracticable  project  for  overturning 
the  government  was  too  desperate  for  a  reasoning  man  to  contem- 
plate, and  it  could  therefore  be  nothing  but  the  phantasy  of  **  a  mind 
diseased."  He  repudiated  foreign  aid,  and  at  home  he  had  none  to 
countenance  his  mad  attempt  but  a  few  of  the  lowest  of  the  citizens. 
On  a  score  or  two  muskets,  some  hundred  pikes,  and  any  of  the  rabble 
who  would  be  persuaded  to  receive  them,  his  wild  expectations  rest- 
ed ;  and  never  was  a  political  superstructure  raised  on  sandier  found- 
ation than  in  reliance  on  an  Irish  mob. 

Emmett  for  some  time  had  been  under  the  surveillance  of  the  me- 
tropolitan police,  and  consequently  had  lived  in  close  concealment. 


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ROBERT   EMMETT   AND   ARTHUR   AYLMER.  471 

His  days  were  passed  in  the  malt-house,  superintending  his  military 
preparations,  and  in  the  evening  he  retired  to  the  house  of  a  deluded 
tradesman,  which,  from  its  immediate  vicinity  to  his  dep6t,  was  to 
one  circumstanced  as  he  was  particularly  convenient 

That  a  discovery  of  his  plot  against  the  government  might  hourly 
be  expected,  Emmett  had  good  reason  to  conclude ;  and  the  only 
desperate  alternative  lefl  to  the  mad  adventurer  was,  to  draw  the 
sword  at  once^  and  precipitate  the  outbreak. 

I  said  that  Emmett's  associates  were  confined  to  the  lowest  classes 
of  society  ;  but  there  was  a  solitary  exception.  A  young  gentleman, 
of  ruined  fortunes,  had  desperately  entered  into  the  conspiracy ;  and 
while  Emmett  saw  nothing  but  what  was  brilliant  in  the  distance, 
Arthur  Aylmer  felt  assured  that  success  was  altogether  hopeless. 

Aylmer  was  a  man  of  ancient  family.  His  father,  after  dissipating 
a  goodly  inheritance  in  horse-racing  and  electioneering,  led  his  only 
son  an  orphan ;  and  an  unmarried  uncle,  a  gentleman  of  large  proper- 
ty^ adopted  him,  and  announced  him  to  be  his  heir.  With  Emmett 
Aylmer  had  been  a  student  in  the  Dublin  university ;  and,  while  his 
friend  cultivated  a  fine  taste  and  inculcated  his  dangerous  doctrines, 
Aylmer  wasted  neither  time  nor  thought  on  political  theories,  but  led 
a  gay  and  careless  life  in  evening  revelries  and  morning  amusements. 
Fine  as  the  college  youth  were  then,  none  in  the  manlier  exercises 
could  compete  with  Arthur  Aylmer.  He  was  the  best  hurler  of  his 
day,  threw  the  sledge  farther  than  any  of  his  compeers,  and,  in  a 
running  leap,  was  held  to  be  unrivalled.  By  a  singular  coincidence, 
Aylmer  and  Emmett  on  the  same  morning  had  obtained  an  unfortu- 
nate notoriety;  the  former  was  expelled  for  fighting  a  duel,  the  latter 
upon  charges  of  sedition. 

Pardonable  as  the  first  offence  was,  at  a  period  when  duelling  was 
so  much  the  order  of  the  day  that  even  the  judges  of  the  land  would 
send  and  accept  a  challenge,  Aylmer's  expulsion  was  never  forgiven 
by  his  uncle,  and  time,  instead  of  healing,  appeared  to  enlarge  the 
breach.  At  last  the  old  man,  by  an  insane  marriage  with  a  girl  who 
might  have  been  taken  rather  for  a  grand-daughter  than  a  wife,  anni- 
hilated every  hope  his  nephew  might  have  still  indulged  of  succeeding 
to  his  uncle's  fortune.  Debts,  contracted  when  he  considered  him- 
self about  to  inherit  a  fine  estate,  now  pressed  heavily  on  the  unfor- 
tunate young  gentleman.  His  creditors,  as  his  prospects  became 
more  overclouded,  became  in  turn  more  urgent ;  writs  were  issued, 
which  he  could  only  avoid  by  personal  concealment.  Literally  with- 
out a  guinea,  a  mad  attempt  or  a  debtor's  prison  was  the  only  alter- 
native \e(i  him ;  and,  reckless  of  a  life,  which  he  now  regarded  as 
worse  than  valueless,  Aylmer  sheltered  himself  in  the  dep6t,  and 
agreed  to  take  part  in  a  wild  hnetae,  which  he  knew  would  consign 
its  leaders  to  the  scaffold. 

It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  on  that  night  an  outbreak, 
once  postponed,  was  to  be  attempted  at  every  hazard.  .All  the  ma- 
tiriel  within  the  arsenal  of  the  conspirators  was  now  being  placed  in 
readiness ;  and  the  mad  enthusiast  who  had  devised  the  conspiracy, 
and  the  reckless  man  who  had  joined  it,  were  personally  superintend- 
ing the  preparations  for  the  intended  insurrection.  Against  the  walls 
of  a  large  and  desolate-looking  loft  hundreds  of  pikes  were  resting — 
fire-arms,  grenades,  and  cartridges  were  spread  loosely  over  the  floor ; 


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472  ROBERT   EMMETT  AND  ARTHUR   ATLMER; 

several  beams,  hollowed  and  filled  with  powder,  and  pkmks  thickly 
studded  witli  spike-nails  to  impede  cavalry,  were  plaoed  against  an 
open  window  to  launch  into  the  street  AH  was  bustle,  and  some 
twenty  men  were  employed  in  active  preparation  for  one  of  the  wild- 
est attempts  which  history  records. 

Screened  by  some  packing-cloths,  a  comerof  the  wretched  build« 
ing  was  considered  private,  and  appropriated  to  ^  the  general,"  as 
poor  Emmett  called  himself.  A  deal  table,  two  crazy  chairs,  and  a 
desk  comprised  the  furniture,  and  there,  after  a  hurried  meal,  the 
two  conspirators  were  seated :  all  was  in  perfect  keeping  with  the 
place.  Two  vulgar  wine-glasses  and  an  undecanted  bottle  of  port- 
wine  were  placed  upon  the  table. 

«  You  seem  dispirited,  Arthur ;  come,  rouse  thee,  man  ! — the  wine 
is  not  amiss^  although  our  table  appointments  are  of  the  plainest 
order.  Well ;  'tis  the  last  night  we  shall  be  constrained  to  play  at 
hide-and-seek;  and,  before  this  time  to-morrow  evening  the  metro- 
polis will  be — " 

**  Marvelling  that  men  could  be  out  of  Bedlam,  who  were  half  so 
mad  as  we,"  exclaimed  Aylmer,  as  he  broke  in  upon  the  unfinished 
sentence. 

Emmett  coloured  to  the  brows.  *'  If  you  think  the  attempt  so  un- 
promising, why  persevere  ?  You  are  still  a  free  agent,  and  need  not 
commit  yourself — ^you  have  ample  time  to  recede.  Your  secret  rests 
in  a  breast  that  never  will  betray  it;  and,  excepting  myself,  none 
even  know  your  name." 

"  My  dear  Emmett,  I  have  never  concealed  from  you  the  fact,  that 
circumstances,  and  not  fancy,  have  made  me  your  partisan,*'  returned 
Aylmer;  "there  are  secret  springs  which  influence  human  actions, 
and  mine  obey  their  guidance :  attend  to  me  a  moment  You  know 
the  cruel  disappointment  which  cherished  assurances  of  wealth,  and 
all  that  is  attendant  on  it,  inflicts  on  him  who  was  taught  from  infancy 
to  look  to  a  noble  inheritance  as  his,  and  at  manhood  finds  his  dream 
suddenly  dispelled,  and  himself  thrown  on  the  world,  worse  even  than 
a  pauper.  Would  you  believe  me  when  I  tell  you,  that,  even  after 
the  dotard's  marriage,  some  whisperings  of  hope  sustained  me;  but 
this  day  tlie  final  blow  has  been  delivered,  and  there  is  nothing  in  this 
world  now,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  to  occasion  either  hope  or  fear." 

He  took  a  newspaper  from  his  pockety  pointed  out  a  paragraph  as 
he  handed  it  across  the  table  to  his  companion,  and  then  continued. 

"  Read,  my  friend,  and  then  say  whether  my  ruin  is  not  fully  con- 
summated." 

Emmett  took  the  paper,  and,  in  an  under  tone,  rapidly  repeated  the 
paragraph : — 

"  Yesterday,  at  Aylmer  Castle,  the  lady  of  Reginald  Aylmer  was 
safely  delivered  of  a  son  and  heir.  The  universal  joy  which  this 
happy  event  occasioned  was  evidenced  by  a  general  demonstration  of 
delight;  when  darkness  came, on  every  height  bonfires  were  blazing." 

**  Nay,  stop,  my  dear  Emmett ;  these  agreeable  details  are  not  par- 
ticularly gratifying  to  me.  Whatever  doubts  I  entertained  before  of 
joining  in  the  intended  outbreak  are  now  removed,  and  for  a  thou- 
sand pounds,  by  heaven,  I  would  not  now  hold  back  I " 

<<  I  do  not  exactly  see  how  far  this  occurrence  can  have  removed 
your  previous  scruples,"  was  the  remark. 


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OR,   DUBLIN  IN    1803.  473 

"A  very  few  words  will  explain  it,"  replied  Aylmer.  "  You  are, 
my  dear  Emraett,  a  political  enthusiast — ^forgive  me,  I  mean  you  no 
offence — and  so  also  is  my  uncle,  although  you  differ  in  opinion  widely 
as  the  poles  are  apart*  Seek  Ireland  over,  you  will  not  find  a  more 
bigoted  Orangeman  than  he ;  he  might  feel  some  regret  at  seeing  a 
mad  dog  hanged,  but  he  would  be  particularly  gratified  in  assisting 
to  string  up  a  rebel.  He  prides  himself  on  the  loyalty  of  his  name, 
and,  as  I  am  well  convinced,  would  much  rather  that  any  of  his 
lineage  were  accused  of  highway-robbery  than  sedition.  Were  I 
thrown  into  a  jail  he  would  treat  the  matter  with  indifference,  and 
probably  dole  out  through  the  keeper  enough  to  prevent  the  prodigal 
from  starving.  A  ruined  nephew  has  caused  him  no  regret — a 
rebel  nephew  will  wring  'his  withers  to  the  quick !  Yes,  old  dotard  I 
I  '11  mar  your  festivities  when  you  least  expect  it ;  and  while  you 
pride  yourself  on  a  youthful  heir,  the  paper  that  records  his  birth 
will  recall  to  memory  your  traitor  kinsman.  What  hour  is  this  affair 
to  commence?" 
«*At  twilight,"  was  the  reply. 

*'  Then  shall  I  be  with  you  punctually ;  one  visit  must  be  paid,  and 
then  the  sooner  the  world  and  I  shake  hands  and  part,  the  better.'* 

Aylmer  rose  from  the  table — was  cautiously  let  out  of  the  build- 
ing mto  the  narrow  lane,  the  door  was  jealously  secured,  and,  pro- 
ceeding by  the  most  private  and  unfrequented  streets,  he  lefl  the 
wretched  locality  for  one  of  the  chosen  resorts  of  fashion. 

Arthur  Aylmer  we  have  described  as  combining  what  are  generally 
found  to  be  physically  opposite,  uncommon  strength  and  great  acti- 
vity. When  nature  is  liberal  in  some  gifls,  she  olten  plays  the  nig- 
gard regarding  others;  but  in  AylmePs  case  the  fickle  dame  had 
made  a  generous  exception.  No  ponderous  outlines  marred  the  sym- 
metry of  his  figure  while  they  marked  its  strength ;  no  meagre  and 
sinewy  frame-work  promised  a  remarkable  agility.  His  appearance 
was,  at  the  same  time,  graceful  and  commanding ;  while  in  a  face, 
whose  expression  was  exceedingly  prepossessing,  not  a  feature  could 
have  been  objected  to. 

As  a  student,  Arthur  Aylmer  was  an  idler ;  but  who  could  have 
waded  through  the  stupid  reading  which  a  university  course  then  im- 
posed but  some  dull  mortal,  to  whose  heavy  intellect  Pope  and  Shak- 
speare  were  incomprehensible?  But  Aylmer  was  a  man  of  better 
taste ;  and  while  De  Lolme  and  Burlemaqui  were  thrown  aside,  the 
old  dramatists  and  all  the  lighter  literature  of  the  day  were  more 
pleasantly  and  profitably  substituted. 

Never  had  a  brilliant  career  closed  more  sadly  and  unexpectedly ; 
one  short  year  before,  men  envied  and  women  worshipped  Reginald 
Avlmer's  then  ackoowlec^ed  heir»  All  that  could  intoxicate  youth- 
ful vanity  had  assailed  him,  and  whether  he  hurled  in  the  park,  or 
danced  m  the  gay  assembly,  on  him  admiring  looks  were  centred.. 
To  personal  advantages,  others  which  influence  society  were  super- 
added. Aylmer  had  birth,  position,  and  prospective  fortune,  and  for 
him  many  a  beauty  sifhed,  and  on  him  many  a  mother  speculated ; 
but  he  was  love-prooN— his  heart  was  already  preoccupied.  With 
Irish  gallantry,  Aylmer  returned  the  flattering  incense  abundantly 
offered  him  by  the  fiEur ;  and  while  all  praised  his  agreeability,  none 
asserted  that  a  sentence  had  ever  passed  his  lips  which  indicated  a 


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474  ROBERT   EMMETT  AND  ARTHUR  AYLMER; 

warmer  feeling  than  the  customary  homage  which  woman  commands 
and  man  acknowledges. 

Aylmer  loved — not  wisely,  but  too  well — the  beautiful  daughter  of 
a  high  legal  functionary,  who  had  fought  his  way  to  the  judge's  er- 
mine. Let  the  reader  not  start  at  the  phrase — ay,  fought ;  for  in 
those  days,  strange  as  it  may  sound  to  English  earSf  the  pistol  was 
the  surest  passport  to  the  bench,  and  by  personal  intrepidity,  rather 
than  forensic  talent,  a  friendless  lawyer  had  thus  made  his  way  to 
fortune.  The  times  were  out  of  joint,  daring  was  better  than  desert; 
and  a  man,  in  boyhood  destined  for  the  priesthood,  at  fifly  saw  a  name, 
originally  conferred  upon  a  peasant's  son,  recorded  proudly  in  the 
peerage. 

No  matter  what  profession  he  might  have  selected,  in  it  Lord 

would*have  risen  to  eminence ;  the  head  was  admirably  gifted,  but 
nature  had  sent  him  into  the  world  without  a  heart.  He  possessed 
determined  courage,  with  a  conscience  that  owned  no  scruples ;  and 
the  -whole  objects  of  his  existence  seemed  centred  in  despotic  power. 
To  ready  and  efficient  agents — and  none  others  would  he  employ — 
he  was  ever  a  munificent  patron,  and  place,  pension^  and  distinction 
were  showered  upon  minions  whom  he  secretly  and  heartily  despised* 
But  it  was  the  tool,  and  not  the  man  that  he  rewarded. 

Such  was  the  celebrated  Lord  .     There  was  but  one  being 

upon  earth  he  was  supposed  to  love^  and  that  love  was  secondary  to 
his  all-engrossing  ambition.  The  world  did  not  hesitate  to  assert^ 
that,  had  pride  demanded  the  sacrifice,  like  another  Jephtha,  Lord 

would  not  have  scrupled  to  find  the  victim  in  his  daughter. 

In  every  leading  point  of  character,  never  was  child  so  like  a 
parent  as  Lady  Caroline  was  like  the  judge.  Sumptuously  beautiful, 
could  report  be  trusted,  Ireland  did  not  produce  her  peer.  Under 
fascinating  manners  she  concealed  a  masculine  and  imperious  dispo* 
sition;  and,  while  she  exacted  homage,  she  despised  it  Cold  to 
the  feelings  of  all  beside,  she  trifled  with  those  who  worshipped  at 
the  shrine  of  beauty  until  she  tired  of  the  incense  profusely  offered, 
and  then  her  delight  appeared  to  lie  in  rudely  crushing  the  hopes  her 
smiles  had  fostered.  But,  cold  as  her  wortiiless  heart  was,  it  owned 
a  solitary  impression ;  and,  so  far  as  a  being  like  herself  could  know 
what  love  was,  she  felt  that  passion  for  Arthur  Aylmer. 

Never  was  man  better  fitted  to  become  the  dupe  of  dangerous 
beauty  than  Reginald  Aylmer's  discarded  heir.  In  him  every  thought 
and  act  were  open  and  impulsive;  and  when  Lady  Caroline  listened  with 
brilliant  smiles  to  his  tale  of  ardent  love,  and  told  him  in  return  that 

*^  All  which  his  lips  impassioned  swore," 
was  faithfully  reciprocated,  had  an  angel  whispered  a  doubt  against 
the  fair  one's  constancy,  Aylmer  would  have  repudiated  the  suspi- 
cion.   From  personal  observation,  as  well  as  the  private  admissions 

of  his  daughter.  Lord was  perfectly  aware  of  the  existing  liaison, 

and,  in  the  fashionable  circles,  a  speedy  union  between  the  parties 
was  spoken  of  as  a  settled  affair.  The  ver^  morning  which  preceded 
the  fatal  duel,  Aylmer  was  engaged  in  writing  a  letter  to  his  uncle^ 
announcing  the  engagement  and  soliciting  his  approval. 

When  the  old  man's  angry  feelings  towards  his  rash  nephew  be- 
came generally  known,  an  evident  coldness  in  Lord 's  manner 

was  remarked,  and  Arthur  fancied  that  a  change  had  come  over  the 


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OE,   DUBLIN   IN   1803.  475 

bearing  even  of  the  lady  of  his  love.  But»  when  it  was  reported  tha  t 
the  irritated  uncle  talked  of  disinheritance,  increasing  formality  on 
the  father's  part  and  frequent  "  not-at-homes "  by  the  daughter^  con- 
firmed what  before  had  been  mere  suspicion.  Too  soon  the  coup  de 
tonnerre  descended ;  and  the  old  man's  marriage,  by  the  same  blow^ 
annihilated  every  hope  of  pardon  and  extinguished  the  torch  of  love. 

When  brooding  over  loss  of  fortune  one  morning,  a  letter  enveloped 
officially,  and  sealed  with  an  earl's  coronet,  was  delivered  to  the  dis- 
inherited youth.     It   was    from    Lord   ,  and    worded  in  the 

coldest  language.  It  mentioned  that,  as  idle  reports  had  crept  into 
circulation  touching  a  non-existent  engagement,  and  that  as  these 
must  be  particularly  disagreeable  to  himself^,  and  annoying  to  Lady 
Caroline,  it  was  desirable  tliat  such  idle  gossip  should  be  ended.  Of 
course  the  means  were  in  a  nutshell*  It  was  imperative  that  there 
should  be  a  total  cessation  of  visiting  at  his  house ;  while  in  public, 
Lady  Caroline  and  Mr.  Aylmer  should  meet  as  strangers.  Such,  he 
continued,  were  his  decided  opinions,  and  in  these,  his  daughter  en- 
treated him  to  say  that  she  altogether  coincided. 

Before  the  next  moon  waned,  a  paragraph  ran  the  rounds  of  the 
newspapers  stating  that  a  marriage  in  high  life  was  decided  on,  and 

that  the  union  would  be  immediate.     The  Earl  of was  the 

successful  suitor,  the  beautiful  Lady  Caroline  the  fair^anc^^. 

At  last  the  long-expected  announcement,  that  the  happy  day  was 
fixed  for  the  2drd  of  June,  appeared  in  the  courtly  column  of  the 
morning  papers.  *'  The  happy  day  I " — and  would  the  false  fair  one 
feel  it  one, 

**  Whose  morning  rote 
To  promise  rapture  in  its  close  ?'* 

No;  all  her  love  for  Aylmer  had  returned;  and,  in  secret  bitterness 
of  soul,  she  cursed  the  hour  when  she  had  consented  to  barter  youth 
and  beauty  for  titled  wealth.  And  who  was  he  who  claimed  her 
hand  and  fealty  ?  The  contrast  between  him  and  the  rejected  one 
was  fearful,  Aylmer,  gifled  by  nature  to  exuberance — the  earl — 
*^  A  dwarf  in  person,  and  in  mind  a  dolt." 

A  Strong  presentiment  that  the  bridal  day  of  his  faithless  mistress 
should  be  the  last  that  he  would  pass  in  the  metropolis,  haunted 
Aylmer's  fancy,  and  some  freakish  impulse  induced  him  to  repair  to 
Merrion  Square. 

"  Yes,"  he  muttered,  as  he  buttoned  his  coat  collar  to  prevent  re- 
cognition, *'  I  '11  view  the  spot  once  more,  where  I  wooed  and  won  the 
lost  one." 

The  square  was  crowded  when  he  reached  it,  for  the  bridal 
dSfeHn^  had  been  delayed  by  waiting  for  the  Viceroy,  who  honoured 
it  with  his  company,  and  hence,  the  departure  of  the  happy  pair  had 
been  made  later  than  was  customary.  The  flagways  were  crowded 
with  lookers-on  ;  the  drive  nearly  choked  with  carriages ;  while  con- 
spicuous by  the  white  favors  worn  by  the  postilions,  the  travelling 
chariot  of  the  noble  bridegroom  divided  popular  attention  with  the 
vice-regal  state-coach  and  its  escort  of  light  dragoons. 

**  Not  yet  departed  ! "  muttered  Aylmer :  <<  I  must  not  risk  a  pass- 
ing glance  at  her,  or  by  heaven  I  1  think  'twould  n^adden  me.**  And 
pressing  through  the  crowd,  he  hurried  from  the  square. 


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476  ROBERT   EHMETT   AND   ARTHUR   ATLMBR. 

He  cleared  the  throng,  turned  from  the  earl's  mansion  into  a  street 
leading  into  fields  long  since  built  upon.  A  loud  hurra  announced 
that  the  bridal  equipage  bad  started ;  and  he  walked  hastilpr  on  in  an 
opposite  direction  to  that  which  he  imagmed  the  false  fair  one  and 
her  lord  would  take.  Fate  had  still  an  arrow  in  reserve ;  and  the 
last,  to  feelings  already  lacerated,  was  not  less  deadly  than  those 
that  had  preceded  it. 

The  route  he  had  unfortunately  taken,  unknown  to  Aylmer,  led 
directly  from  the  square  into  the  southern  road,  when,  in  a  few 
minutes,  a  rush  at  speed  of  horses  was  heard,  and  the  carriage  he 
was  so  anxious  to  avoid  came  rapidly  on.  As  it  overtook  him-* 
strange  and  evil  augury  1  the  near-side  leader  fell,  rolling  over  and 
totally  disablmg  the  post-boy.  Alarm  and  confusion  followed ;  the 
carriage  blinds  were  pulled  up,  the  bride  was  pale  as  marble,  and  her 
lord,  to  all  appearance,  still  more  agitated  than  his  lady.  The  only 
person  who  viewed  the  accident  was  the  discarded  lover ;  and  by 
the  common  impulse  of  hunumity,  he  sprang  forward,  and  endea- 
voured to  extricate  the  boy  from  the  pressure  of  the  fallen  horse. 
He  succeeded ;  and  as  he  raised  his  tall  figure  from  its  stooping 
attitude,  his  eyes  met  Lady  Caroline's.  At  the  recognition  Aylmer's 
face  flushed  to  the  very  brows,  while  the  bride,  uttering  a  wild 
scream^  fell  back  in  the  carriage  and  fainted. 

**  I  have  seen  enough,  and  lived  too  long,"  muttered  the  discarded 
lover ;  ''  and  now  to  seek  the  shortest  and  surest  cure  for  misery  like 
mine — a  grave  I " 

He  said,  and  hurried  to  the  city. 

Muffled  in  his  coat,  with  his  hat  slouched  over  his  forehead, 
Aylmer  again  repassed  the  house  of  feasting.  He  paused,  fond 
wretch !  to  take  a  parting  look  at  what  he  once  believed  to  be  the 
home  of  love  and  constancy.  His  stop  was  momentary,  for  in  under- 
tones, a  voice  whispered  in  his  ear,  '<  Ah  1  Mr.  Aylmer,  is  it  you  ?" 

The  person  thus  suddenly  addressed,  started  and  looked  round. 
A  woman  was  standing  at  his  elbow,  one  who  was  once  a  favourite 
attendant  of  her  who  had  ruled  his  heart 

"You  here,  Kathleeine ? " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Avlmer,"  was  the  reply.  "  The  last  letter  that  you 
gave  me,  and  which  I  delivered  to  Lady  Caroline,  was  handed  to  the 
earl  unopened  in  my  presence^  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  after- 
wards— ** 

She  paused. 

**  Go  on,  Kathleeine ;  what  then  ?  " 

''  Why,  I  was  discarded  like  yourself." 

^  And  have  I  injured  thee,  too,  poor  girl  ?  I  fancied  that  fate  had 
reserved  her  malice  for  myself." 

**  Think  nothing  of  it,  sir.  Were  aught  that  could  serve  you  to 
be  done  again,  trust  me,  that  Kathleeine  would  not  fail  you.  Have  I 
forgotten  the  many  times  I  brought  my  lady's  billets,  how  you  would 
wrap  the  answer  in  a  bank-note,  give  me  a  kiss,  and  tell  me  to  pay 
the  postage?" 

Aylmer  smiled  bitterly,  while  his  hand  impulsively  sought  his 
pocket.  "By  heaven!"  he  muttered,  "not  one  solitary  shilling." 
And  pushing  roughly  through  the  crowd,  he  hurried  from  the  spot 


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477 


THE  HOSPITAL  OP  THE  SAN'  SPIRITO  AT  ROME, 

A    NARRATIVE    OF    FACTS. 

BY   B.   y.  RIPPINGILLB. 

It  is  in  March,  and,  I  think,  upon  the  first  day  of  the  month, 
that  a  somewhat  curious  ceremony  is  observed  at  this  great  and 
useful  institution  in  the  Eternal  City.  This  is  an  annual  and  a  public 
anatomical  demonstration.  The  Locale  is  an  old-fashioned  saloon, 
surrounded  by  a  kind  of  balustrade,  or  railing.  It  is  overlooked  by 
a  small  gallery,  and  around  the  saloon  and  outside  the  railings  are 
raised  seats  and  standing-places  for  the  visitors.  It  is  not,  like  one  of 
the  ceremonies  of  the  church  in  Easter  week,  attended  by  thou- 
sands of  natives  and  strangers ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  but  little 
known,  and  is  attended  almost  entirely  by  the  inhabitants  of  the 
quarter  in  which  the  San'  Spirito  is  situated,  and  by  a  few  whom 
curiosity,  invitation,  or  accident,  may  bring  together.  As  I  en- 
joyed the  acquaintance  of  one  of  the  kindest  and  the  oldest  sur- 
geons employed  there,  I  gladly  accepted  the  opportunity  of  witness- 
ing— or,  as  the  Prench  would  say,  of  assisting — at  this  ceremony. 
'  Upon  reaching  the  room,  in  which  perhaps  a  couple  of  hundred 
persons  were  assembled,  my  attention  was  first  struck  by  observing 
several  young  men  dressed  in  a  kind  of  college  uniform,  and  handing 
round,  upon  trays,  lemons,  tied  up  in  bunches  with  coloured  rifc^ 
bons.  This  beautiful  fruit,  still  attached  to  its  twigs,  and  surrounded 
by  its  leaves,  was  so  abundant  as  to  scent  the  atmosphere  with  a  very 
agreeable  odour.  The  persons  occupying  the  gallery,  said  to  be 
governors  or  officials  of  some  sort,  were  first  served ;  tlien  certain 
persons  in  the  crowd  below ;  and,  lastly,  the  remainder  of  the  fruit, 
now  separate  and  single,  were  distributed  among  the  casual  visitors. 

While  this  ceremony  was  proceeding  I  had  time  to  look  about  me, 
and  observed  that  towards  the  upper  portion  of  the  circle  there  stood 
a  large  table,  covered  with  a  green  baize,  and  upon  it  was  placed  an 
inclined  plane  of  perhaps  two  yards  long  and  one  yard  wide,  bearing 
what  appeared  to  be  two  large  medallions,  ornamented  around  with 
clipped  and  coloured  paper,  wrought  into  a  kind  of  wreath  in  an 
oval  form,  and  giving  to  the  whole  rather  a  pretty  effect.  On  look- 
ing closer,  however,  it  might  be  seen  that  the  masses  within  these 
wreaths  were  parts  of  the  human  subject,  very  neatly  dissected,  and 
arranged  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  as  little  offensive  as  possible.  A 
kind  of  lecture  and  demonstration,  I  found,  was  to  be  given  upon 
the  organs  of  deglutition,  and  the  preparations  were  consequently 
made  with  that  view.  One  of  these  exhibited  the  external,  the  other 
the  internal  or  actual  parts  of  the  organs  whose  structure  and 
functions  were  about  to  be  explained.  It  is  curious  that  the  latter — 
the  dissected  and  mangled  portions-appeared  to  create  no  unpleasant 
sensation ;  but  the  former,  the  medallion,  which  was,  in  fact,  the 
human  head  and  neck,  split  through  the  crown  down  the  forehead, 
nose,  mouth,  &c.,  and  most  carefully  fastened  fiat  upon  a  board,  pro- 
duced in  a  few  persons,  I  observed,  a  very  different  effect.  It  was 
rather  a  handsome  head,  and  the  medallion^  or  aUo-relieDO,  most 


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478  HOSPITAL  OF 

artistically  executed ;  but,  with  its  natural  dark  hair^  eyelashes,  and 
beards  it  was  by  no  means  a  pleasant  object  to  look  upon. 

After  a  short  delay,  the  lecturer  and  nis  assistant,  apparently  two 
students^  advanced  towards  the  table,  and  stood  one  at  each  end  of 
it,  with  their  faces  towards  the  gallery  and  the  mass  of  the  spectators. 
After  a  brief  prelude  on  the  uses  and  importance  of  anatomy,  one 
proceeded  to  read  from  a  manuscript  he  held  in  his  hand  the  names, 
situations,  and  offices  of  the  muscles  employed  in  the  act  of  swallow- 
ing, and  the  other  to  point  with  a  stilus,  (a  straightened  wire,)  to  the 
parts  and  particulars  as  they  were  enumerated. 

All  this  perhaps  occupied  half  an  hour,  and  terminated  in  a  good 
deal  of  applause;  but  it  was  gone  oyer  too  rapidly  to  be  of  any  use 
whatever  m  the  way  of  instruction, — an  object  that,  in  all  proba- 
bility, was  not  intended  to  be  realized. 

As  soon  as  this  part  of  the  business  was  finished,  another  of  a  very 
different,  and  of  an  amusing  character,  commenced.  Half-a-dozen 
persons  among  the  visitors,  perhaps  more,  had  come  prepared  with 
copies  of  verses  adapted  to  the  occasion,  and  complimentary  either  to 
the  subject  or  to  the  persons  engaged  upon  it  For  an  mstant  all 
stood  up,  each  holding  his  manuscript  in  his  hand  ready  to  read,  and 
for  a  minute  or  so  no  one  appeared  disposed  to  give  way ;  but  at  last 
the  point  was  decided  in  favour  of  an  old,  cadaverous-looking  man, 
who  slowly  mounted  his  spectacles,  slowly  unfolded  his  paper,  and 
slowly  set  a-goinff  some  dozen  laborious  stanzas,  stuffed  with  lonff 
words,  and  awfully  inverted  and  involved  sentences,  of  which  I  could 
make  nothing,  and  at  which  everybody  appeared  puzzled.  Then 
came  another  of  a  more  lively  character,  which  my  friend,  the  old 
surgeon,  complimented,  by  saying  that  some  of  the  concetti  (conceits) 
'*  were  not  bad."  Then  came  another,  and  another ;  the  merits  of 
which  were  warmly  and  readily  acknowledged.  But  the  last,  which 
created  the  greatest  sensation,  and  was  read  with  a  good  deal  of  effect 
by  a  very  droll-looking  fellow,  having  the  appearance  of  a  mechanic, 
and  who,  I  afterwards  found  out  was  a  carpenter,  was  a  genuine 
example  of  Roman  humour,  broad,  and  even  extravagant  For  my- 
self, I  understood  but  very  little  of  it ;  but  it  appeared  to  have  been 
highly  relished  by  a  large  portion  of  the  assembly,  who  laughed  and 
applauded  most  heartily.  When  I  asked  the  surgeon  for  an  explana- 
tion of  some  points  and  phrases  I  had  caught  hold  of,  he  smiled, 
shook  his  head,  and  told  me  I  must  take  a  degree  in  the  Piazza 
Navona,  and  prepare  myself  by  studying  the  works  of  its  hero,  Meo 
Patacca,  and  the  great  Pansanera,  his  friend.  It  appeared  from  the 
surgeon's  account  that  a  very  large  portion  of  this  droll  effusion  was 
given  in  the  patois,  the  slang  rather,  or,  as  a  polite  Roman  would 
say,  in  the  linguaccio  of  Trastevere,  the  St  Giles's  or  the  Wapping  of 
Rome.  It  commenced  by  remarking,  that  whatever  differences  of 
opinion  might  exist  as  to  the  importance  of  anatomy,  none  could 
doubt  the  uses  of  the  organs — all  authorities  were  in  their  favour ; 
they  were  employed  by  me  first  man,  and  were  the  first  that  men 
learnt  to  employ,  and  their  antiquity  was  greater  than  that  of  science 
itself;  that  it  was  unnecessary  to  say  mueh  about  the  mode  of  em- 
ploying them ;  that  that  might  be  seen  every  day  at  the  Falcone  or 
the  Oensola  (two  renowned  eating-houses  in  that  quarter)  ;  that  the 
throat  was  the  road  of  all  the  good  things  of  life — no  disparagement 
to  the  via  sacra  ;  that  it  ought  to  be  put  under  the  special  protection 


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THE  san'  spirito.  479 

oF  Bacchus ;  and  that  the  via  vino  would  be  a  very  good  name  for 
it,  and  save  the  trouble  of  learning  so  many  hard  words ;  but  the 
author  had  no  doubt  that  the  learned  gentlemen  were  right  in  all 
they  had  said  about  it,  since  they  spoke  from  a  practical  knowledge 
of  the  organs,  no  men  being  more  assiduous  in  the  cultivation  of 
them  than  the  students  of  the  hospital.  This  appeared  so  good  a  hit 
that  a  loud  and  general  laugh  succeeded  it,  and  thus  closed  this 
scientific  sitting  and  ceremony  of  the  San'  Spirito. 

Not  so,  however,  was  this  little  event  doomed  to  end  with  me.  I 
say  doomed,  because  upon  a  hundred  occasions  I  have  observed,  that 
however  simple  may  be  the  nature  of  the  occurrence,  it  is  sure  to  in- 
volve some  curcumstance  or  thing  of  no  ordinary  character— distress- 
ing* pathetic,  or  touching,  in  some  way  or  other.  I  might  have  ffone 
forth  at  the  door  with  the  still-laughing  crowd,  and  departed  with,  a 
smile  upon  my  cheek  and  the  sounds  of  mirth  in  my  ears ;  but  I 
turned  with  the  old  surgeon  to  look  about  me,  and  to  see  what  was 
curious  in  the  immense  building  over  our  heads.  A  few  old  paint* 
ings  first  detained  me,  some  antique  sculpture,  and  ornamental  frag- 
ments found  everywhere  at  Rome.  We  then  stopped  to  look  at  a 
mass  of  dusty  and  disorderly  anatomical  preparations,  which  the  sur- 
geon explained  and  commented  upon ;  and,  from  dark  closets  and 
glass-cases  we  passed  on  to  the  lower  wards,  in  which  the  convales- 
cent sick  were  lying  on  their  beds,  or  sitting  about  in  thoughtful 
and  pensive  positions,  or  gossiping  in  little  groups.  All  was  orderly, 
calm,  and  exceedingly  clean,  reflecting  great  credit  upon  the  manage- 
ment of  this  noble  establishment. 

From  this  we  passed  into  the  casualty  wards,  which  presented  a 
very  different  scene,  bebg  filled  with  objects  that  immediately  arrest 
and  rivet  attention:  the  poor  sufferers,  writhing  under  some  recent 
mutilation,  with  wounds  fresh  and  smarting,  or  in  the  burning  fever 
and  delirium  that  so  often  succeed  sudden  and  violent  injuries.  I 
had  understood  that,  from  the  firequent  quarrels  in  the  wine-houses, 
the  result  of  engaging  in  certain  games  well  calculated  to  produce 
them,  and  the  unhesitating  use  of  the  knife  (the  coltello  or  stiletto), 
on  an  average  six  or  seven  wounded  were  brought  in  daily  or 
nightly  for  surgical  succour  into  this  hospital.  I  found,  however, 
that  this  account  was  greatly  exaggerated ;  but  that  a  day  seldom 
passed  in  which  one,  two,  and  sometimes  three  patients  of  this  kind 
were  not  admitted.  It  was  curious  to  observe  the  state  of  disorder 
in  which  the  bed-cloUies  of  almost  every  bed  in  this  ward  were 
found,  and  how  different  to  the  appearances  in  the  sick  wards.  In 
some  of  the  beds  larse  muscular  and  bandaged  limbs  were  thrown 
half  out  and  over  the  sides ;  and  as  you  approached  glaring  and 
bloodshot  eyes  were  turned  upon  you.  In  many  of  the  beds  the 
patients  were  sitting  up,  resting  their  brawny  arms,  and  pressing 
their  dark  visaoes  against  their  knees.  In  others,  they  sat  rockinff 
themselves  backwards  and  forwards,  or  beating  impatiently  with 
their  hands  and  fingers,  as  if  tired  of  restraint,  and  wishing  for 
escape  and  revenge.  There  is  something  to  me  exceedingly  touching 
in  seeing  a  strong  and  resolute  man  reduced  by  sickness,  uid  the  in- 
domitable spirit  brought  down  to  the  meekness  of  the  timid  and  the 
weak ;  it  brings  the  man  at  once  within  the  pale  of  our  sympathies, 
and  we  forget  his  disposition  to  violence,  and  regard  his  now  pros- 
trate strength  as  if  it  were  native  gentleness.    It  was  difficult  here, 

VOL.   XXIII.  N  N 


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480  HOSPITAL  OF 

however,  to  indulge  such  feelings,  and  to  give  the  men  before  you 
such  an  advantage,  for  each  looked  unsubdued,  sullen,  and  hardened 
by  what  had  occurred.  I  was  perfectly  aware  there  was  nothing  to 
fear,  as  a  matter  of  course ;  and  I  also  know,  from  associating  with 
men  of  the  class  around  me,  that  their  savage  aspect  was  not  an  in- 
fallible test  of  their  natures;  but  I  must  say  I  was  glad  to  escape 
from  their  presence. 

We  passed  through  ipany  other  wards  in  which  the  victims  of  that 
terrible  scourge  of  beautiful  Italy,  the  malaria  fever,  were  distress- 
ingly abundant ;  many  who  had  been  succoured,  and  set  up  in  health 
and  freedom,  had  again  and  again  returned  from  the  pestilential  lo- 
calities they  were  forced  to  inhabit,  and  many,  as  the  surgeon  said, 
had  now  found  their  last  home.  As  we  passed  from  room  to  room 
we  lingered  in  the  vestibules,  and  on  the  landing-places  of  the  long 
flights  of  stairs,  while  the  surgeon  took  occasion  to  explain  certain 
matters  which  he  saw  interested  me,  and  in  this  way  some  hours 
were  consumed.  Still  we  had  many  apartments  to  see,  and  he 
wished  me  to  look,  at  least,  into  them  all.  I  did  not  like  to  disap- 
point my  good  old  guide,  and  so,  with  wearied  legs,  and  feelings 
even  more  jaded,  I  continued  to  follow  and  to  listen  to  him.  Clean- 
liness and  order  reigned  everywhere,  but  a  certain  closeness  of  at- 
mosphere, a  peculiar  stillness,  an  oppressive  silence,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  painful  sights  that  met  me  at  every  turn,  began  at  last  to  mas- 
ter me,  and  I  was  forced  to  beg  of  the  surgeon  not  to  take  me  any 
further.  We  had  now  mounted  to  the  highest  rooms  in  the  build- 
ing, which  were  considerably  smaller  than  the  rest,  and  here,  on 
coming  to  a  passage,  at  the  end  of  which  were  the  last  two  rooms 
occupied  by  the  patients,  the  surgeon  was  called  by  one  of  the 
nurses. 

Apologizing  for  being  obliged  to  leave  me,  which,  he  said,  would 
onlv  be  for  a  few  minutes,  he  led  me  to  the  end  of  the  passage,  at 
which  another  of  the  nurses  appeared,  and,  committing  me  to  her 
charge,  the  old  man  went  where  he  was  wanted.  Finding  myself  in 
a  comfortable  room,  I  was  glad  to  avail  myself  of  a  chair  that  was 
offered  me,  and  to  sit  down.  The  nurse  was  an  intelligent-looking 
person,  and  spoke  with  that  clear  and  precise  enunaation  which 
renders  a  foreign  language  pleasant  and  comparatively  easy. 

I  had  not  sat  many  minutes  before  I  found  a  draft  from  the  pas- 
sage, a  thing  always  to  be  avoided  in  Italy,  and  I  moved  my  chair, 
therefore,  so  as  almost  to  touch  the  side  of  a  small,  white,  untenant- 
ed  bed.  When  I  had  done  so,  I  caught  a  view  of  a  side-room,  in 
which  were  four  or  five  similar  beds,  all  unoccupied.  As  the  nurse 
was  engaged  in  doing  something  at  a  drawer,  I  did  not  speak  imme- 
diately, but  sat  looking  towards  the  distant  end  of  the  vacant  room. 
As  the  eveninff  was  closing  in,  and  the  windows  were  near  the 
ceiling,  all  the  lower  portion  of  the  little  chamber  was  obscured  in 
the  sombre  shadow,  and  as  the  walls  and  the  beds  were  white,  the 
onlv  objects  which  caught  the  eye  were  the  small  black  crucifixes 
and  holy  water  vessels  hanging  at  the  heads  of  each.  As  I  leaned 
back  in  the  chair,  glad  of  the  rest  it  afforded  me,  I  fell  unconsciously 
into  a  reverie.  My  eye  rested  upon  a  patch  of  sunshine  on  the  dis- 
tant wall,  which  was  gradually  growing  less  and  less,  and  fading  in 
colour  and  in  brightness.  In  the  beginning  of  my  musing  I 
observed  the  nurse  leave  the  room,  I  had  nothing,  therefore,  to  dis- 


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THE  SAN'  SPIWTO.  481 

turb  me,  and  I  abandoned  myself  entirely  to  the  thouffhti  and 
fiuicies  that  were  taking  possession  of  me.  When  I  asked  myself, 
did  these  little  resting-places  of  disease  and  suffering  lose  their  occu« 
pants,  who  were  they,  and  how  many  living  hearts  were  now  bear- 
ing sad  testimony  of  their  loss  ?  I  don't  know  whether  the  surgeon 
had  said  as  mach,  or  any  fancy  of  my  own  had  suggested  the  idea, 
but  a  notion  possessed  me  that  this  was  the  portion  of  the  building 
appropriated  to  those  who  die — I  may  say,  for  few  are  cured  of  that 
disease,  which  may  be  regarded  almost  as  the  penalty  of  beauty — 
consumption. 

If  so,  then  no  rejoicing  relative  had  attended  here  to  lead  away 
from  the  unsparing  grave  the  grateful  convalescent,  feeble  in  step, 
but  strone  in  hopes  and  brightening  prospects,  returning  once  more 
to  her  welcome  home,  to  me  bosom  of  her  friends,  to  freedom,  to 
health,  and  enjoyment.  No  scene  like  this  had  been  enacted  here ; 
death  had  claimed  all,  and  his  victims  had  been  borne  away  by  the 
heccamorti  (bearers  of  the  dead),  and  taken  the  path  marked  out  and 
sprinkled  by  the  tears  of  affection,  dissevered  ties,  and  broken 
hearts.  Upon  these  meek  couches  of  suffering,  then,  have  beautv  and 
health  and  hope  faded  away ;  and  these  have  been  the  last  holds  of 
all  that  belongs  to  life,  the  slight  barrier  between  this  and  another 
world.  From  these  they  have  stepped  one  by  one,  each  witnessing 
the  other's  departure !  God  of  heaven  1  who  can  imagine  the  horrors 
of  the  last  of  these  feeble  and  tender  victims,  whose  gentle  heart 
would  quail  with  fears  unknown  to  a  rough  nature,  now  made  the 
witness  of  a  succession  of  death-bed  horrors;  now  compelled  to 
listen  to  the  sighs  of  a  dying  sister,  and  to  hear  the  voice  of  the 
priest  supplicating  heaven  to  make  smooth  the  path  for  the  departure 
of  her  fellow-suTOrer,  and  her  sole  earthly  companion?  Did  the 
last  unhappy  creature  left — the  lone  one — join  in  this  prayer  as 
much  for  nerself  as  for  another,  and  did  she  see  the  arrangements 
made  for  filling  a  grave  whose  dark  and  narrow  limits  were,  with 
another's  bones,  to  enclose  her  own?  Dreadful  thought  1  what 
human  endurance  could  be  equal  to  such  a  trial?  and  yet  here,  on 
this  very  spot,  on  this  speck  of  the  world's  wide  surface,  covered  as 
it  is  with  human  sympathies  and  sufferings,  all  this  and  more  had 
taken  place,  and  been  enacted  over  and  over  affain.  What  taunting 
ignorance,  what  drivelling  philosophy  it  is,  which  tax  poor  human 
nature  with  the  impatience  of  life,  and  with  want  of  fortitude  to 
grapple  with  its  earthly  destinies,  its  mortal  fate ! 

At  this  moment  the  hour  of  the  Ave  Maria  sounded^^Ae  end  of 
another  day — a  point  of  time  observed  in  all  Catholic  countries,  and 
marked  pretty  generally  by  a  very  touching  ceremony,  in  which  all 
motion  and  conversation  are  suddenly  suspended,  and  every  one 
stops  and  repeats  a  short  prayer.  At  this  moment  the  nurse  I  had 
seen  entered,'and,  approachine  the  bed,; she  reached  over  my  shoulder 
dipping  her  fingers  in  the  little  vessel  of  holy  water  by  the  side  of 
the  crucifix  just  above  my  head,  and  sprinkled  the  ac(pia  benedelia 
upon  the  bed,  she  then  sank  down  upon  her  knees  by  its  side,  and 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  There  was  nothing  surprising  to  me 
in  this  act,  having  frequently  witnessed  similar :  but  in  what  words 
shall  I  convey  to  the  reader  a  notion  of  my  astonishment  and  emo- 
tion when,  turning  my  head,  I  observed  that  this  little  bed  by  which 
I  had  sat  so  long  was  occupied  !     Never,  to  the  last  hour  of  my  life, 

H  N  a 


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482  HOSPITAL  OF 

shall  I  fail  to  see  distinctly  in  my  mind's  eye  the  object  that  now 
riveted  and  absorbed  my  attention,  and  actually,  for  the  moment, 
bewildered  my  faculties.  For  a  minute  or  more  I  gazed  with 
wonder,  unable  to  remove  my  eyes,  or  distinguish  clearly  the 
truth  and  reality  of  what  was  before  me.  I  had  seen  so  many  ob- 
jects within  the  last  few  hours  similar  in  aspect  and  situation,  that, 
for  the  instant,  I  believed  my  fancy  had  played  me  this  trick,  and, 
aided  by  my  sympathies,  had  placed  this  beautiful  and  soul-touching 
phantom  in  the  little  bed  by  which  I  was  sitting.  But  the  nurse, 
rising  from  her  knees,  dispelled  the  illusion ;  her  eyes  were  wet  with 
tears,  and  she  looked  with  a  feeling  of  deep  interest  and  sorrow  upon 
the  wasted  form  within  it.  / 

As  soon  as  I  recovered  myself  so  as  to  speak,  I  remarked,  in  a 
whisper,  "  I  thought  all  these  beds  were  vacant?  " 

Without  raising  her  eyes,  and  in  a  voice  evidently  affected  by 
emotion,  she  replied,  "  They  will  be  to-morrow  I " 

'^  No  ! "  I  ejaculated :  "  is  it  true ;  must  it  be  so  ?  '* 

The  sympathising  woman  shook  her  head,  and  walked  towards 
the  other  side  of  her  own  room,  where,  offering  me  a  chair,  she  seated 
herself. 

''Must  this  beautiful  creature  die?"  said  I;  ''if  she  really  still 
lives,  is  there  no  hope  for  her ;  pray  tell  me  who  is  she,  and  what, 
and  where  does  she  come  from,  trom  what  country  ?  " 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  nurse,  with  a  sigh,  "  who  knows,  who  can  tell 
anything  about  her,  dear  patient  gin,  too  good  for  this  cruel  world  ; 
who  knows  her  birthplace,  the  Und  in  which  she  first  drew  her 
breath,  the  hands  that  first  tended  her,  the  eyes  that  first  looked 
upon,  or  the  bosom  that  first  warmed  and  cherished  her,  who  knows, 
alas  1  who  knows?  "  and  here  the  kind  woman  wept  bitterly. 

Seeing  that  I  regarded  her  emotion  with  interest  and  some  sur- 

grise,  she  made  a  faint  attempt  to  excuse  her  want  of  professional 
rroness,  if  not  insensibility,  and  renuurked,  despondingly,  "  that 
this  was  the  beginning  of  her  career  as  a  hospital  nurse,  that  this 
was  her  last  patient,  and  tliat  when  she  was  gone,  her  vocation 
should  go  with  her  1 " 

"  And  is  it  possible,''  said  I,  "that  no  one  knows  who  she  is,  or 
whence  she  comes  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  she  has  told  her  confessor,"  said  the  woman*  "  She 
knows  not  a  word  of  Italian ;  and  there  is  but  one  priest  in  the 
Propaganda,  I  believe,  who  speaks  her  language." 

'^  Good  God !"  I  exclaimed,  "  is  it  possible  ? — no  parent,  no  friend, 
no  one  to  know  the  locality  or  the  cause, — thus  to  die,  poor  creature, 
so  young,  so  beautiful !     Alas !  alas!" 

Seeing  me  look  towards  the  bed,  and  hearing  me  speak  in  ah 
undertone,  the  nurse  remarked, 

"  O,  you  need  not  fear  to  disturb  her ;  ^e  has  remained  in  this 
state  for  almost  two  days,  and  appears  to  know  nothing.  I  think  she 
sleeps ;  and  I  hope  now  she  does  not  suffer.  The  jwdre,  when  he 
left  her  at  mezzo  giorno  (noon),  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 
as  you  now  see  them.  I  expect  him  soon  again,  and  he  will  find  her 
as  he  left  her ;  and  to-morrow — ^to-morrow  it  will  be  over." 

I  now  rose  from  my  chair,  and  on  tiptoe  approached  the  bed. 
The  light  within  the  last  few  minutes  had  been  lowered  into  gloom 
and  obscurity,  so  that  the  chamber,  the  bed,  and  its  beautiful  tenant 


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THE   SAN*  SPIRTTO.  483 

appeared  more  visionary  and  affecting  than  ever ;  so  much  so  that  I 
felt  ray  footing  upon  the  floor  unsteady,  and  a  swimming  sensation 
in  my  head.  The  bed  appeared  further  from  me  than  it  had  been^ 
and  I  was  obliged  to  stoop  down  in  order  to  see  distinctly  what  was 
within  so  short  a  distance  of  my  eyes.  Heavens !  what  powers  of 
language  are  equal  to  convey  an  idea  of  that  sweet  vision^  that 
ima^e  of  all  that  is  melancholy,  touching,  and  sad  on  earth,  or  beau- 
tiful in  heaven,-»of  all  that  is  calculated  to  inspire  serious  thouffhts^ 
to  burst  the  heart  with  its  own  sympathies,  to  break  the  bonds  of 
earth,  and  to  recal  the  soul  from  its  mad  career  among  the  trifles  of 
this  triflinff  world  ?  Who,  to  have  looked  on  such  a  face,  such  a 
form,  would  not  have  given  half  his  life  to  reanimate  it  ?  Alas  I 
alas  I  that  anything  so  beautiful  should  perish  and  be  lost,  or  become 
but 

<<  A  flower  of  memory's  sad  and  fidde  dime, 
ChillM  by  the  frown  of  all-destroying  time; 
Frail  thing  of  thought,  that  with  obuvion  strides, 
And,  fanned  by  sighs,  bedew'd  with  tears,  survives  !** 

Fortunately  at  this  moment  I  heard  the  surgeon's  footstep  at  the 
door.  On  joming  the  kind  old  man,  he  apologised  for  keeping  me 
so  lonff ;  but^  choked  with  emotion,  I  could  make^him  no  reply.  1 
was  ashamed  of  my  weakness,  and  affected  to  cough  to  conceal  it. 
It  did  not,  however,  escape  his  observation,  and  he  remarked, 

*'  Ay,  these  are  sad  scenes  for  those  not  accustomed  to  them,  and 
sometimes  for  those,  too,  that  are." 

It  is  very  natural  to  suppose  I  made  inquiries  about  this  lonely 
and  lost  creature ;  but  the  surgeon  could  tell  me  nothing,  except  as 
to  the  appropriation  of  that  part  of  the  building ;  upon  which  point 
I  found  my  conjectures  were  correct.  The  patients  here  did  not 
come  within  bis  department.  He,  therefore,  was  not  aware  of  an^ 
such  a  case  as  that  I  described ;  but  he  promised  he  would  immedi- 
ately make  every  inquirv  for  me.  He  knew  some  probationers  and 
padri  in  the  Propaganda ;  and,  if  any  information  was  to  be  ob- 
tained, he  promised  I  should  have  it. 

Alas !  alas !  how  little,  and  yet  how  much,  of  the  history  of  this 
poor  creature  ultimately  came  to  my  knowledge*  What  a  victim  1 
what  a  fate !  How  often  have  I  reproached  myself  that  I  did  not 
speak  a  word  of  English  to  her.  Perhaps  I  might  have  had  some 
message,  some  mission,  some  wish  confided  to  me,  and  mv  promised 
performance  of  any  thing  she  could  have  asked  might  have  given 
one  glimmer  of  hope,  one  gleam  of  consolation  to  her  sinking  heart, 
in  the  terrible  gloom  that  was  fast  closing  the  short  and  dismal  day 
of  her  young  life.  Never  can  I  cease  to  resret  this,  because  now  I 
know  the  country  that  gave  her  birth.  No  doubt  the  priest  had 
reasons  for  communicating  with  her  in  her  native  tongue.  Perhaps 
she  might  have  known  English  but  very  imperfectly.  Her  home 
was  in  a  remote  part  of  Ireland.  This  victim  of  a  cruel  destiny  was 
an  Irish  peasant  girL 


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484 


PARA;  OR,  SCENES  AND  ADVENTURES  ON  THE 
BANKS  OP  THE  AMAZON. 

BY  J.   E.  WABBEN. 

Regions  immense,  unsearchable,  unknown, 

Bade  in  the  ti^endour  of  the  torrid  zone.— Montoomsrt. 

CHAPTBB  VIII. 

Excursion  to  Caripe. — Dawn  of  Day. — Character  of  Scenery. —  Indian  Huts.— 
Mountains. — Insects  and  Birds. — An  Adventure. — A  Halt. —  Nesting-tree  of 
the  Yellow  Orioles.  —  A  Rio  Negro  Canoe.  —  Lorely  Scene.  —  Arrival  at 
Caripe. — A  Stroll  in  the  Woods.  — Young  Cocoa-nuM.  —  A  Paca. — An  Ar- 
madillo.  —  Farinha:  its  manufacture  and  valuci— A  Bath  by  Sunset.  — The 
Caripe  Hummer.— Shells. 

About  a  week  after  taking  leave  of  Nazare,  we  made  an  excur- 
sion to  Caripe.  This  is  a  neglected  fruit  and  sugir  idaiitition, 
situated  on  a  small  island^  nearly  twenty  miles  from  tbe  city  of 
Para. 

Attracted  by  the  flattering  accounts  we  had  heard  of  the  beauty  of 
the  place,  and  of  the  rare  birds  and  curious  shells  that  were  said  to 
exist  in  its  vicinity,  we  had  determined  to  visit  it.  One  morning, 
therefore,  long  before  the  sun  had  risen  from  his  sleepless  slumbers, 
we  started  in  company  with  several  choice  spirits,  on  this  interesting 
trip.  The  waters  of  the  bay  were  calm  as  a  mirror,  and  not  a  sound 
broke  upon  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  scene. 

Floating  down  slowly  with  the  tide,  by  the  glimmering  light  of 
the  stars,  we  guided  our  singular  looking  canoe  amid  a  labyrinth  of 
fairy  islands,  until  at  last  we  turned  into  an  embowered  streamlet  to 
our  left ;  and  were  thus  paddling  slowly  along,  against  a  powerful 
current,  when  with  a  flood  of  light  the  glorious  morning  dawned ! 
How  enchanting  now  was  everything  around !  The  dew-drops  on 
the  overhanging  branches,  glistened  like  jewels  in  the  bright  sun- 
light, splenmd  birds  flew  f^m  bough  to  bough,  chattering  merrily 
in  the  fulness  of  their  joy,  insects  innumerable  kept  up  a  continual 
buzzing  in  Uie  pure  atmosphere,  while  flowers  of  every  hue,  studded 
the  drooping  foliage  of  the  trees,  that  met  in  an  arch  of  tropical  mag- 
nificence, directly  over  our  heads !  The  efiect  of  such  a  scene,  pre- 
sented suddenly  to  the  mind,  is  exhilarating  beyond  description,  and 
none  who  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  experience  it,  will  ever  for^ 
get  the  delicious  sensation,  should  an  age  of  sorrow  and  of  grief 
succeed. 

The  first  impressions  are  always  the  most  delightful  and  perma- 
nent, and  often,  ay  often,  when  gazing  enraptured  on  a  lovely  land- 
scape, have  I  closed  my  eyes  upon  it  for  a  moment,  that  I  might 
again  and  again  be  startled  by  tne  sudden  bursting  of  the  beautiful 
vision  upon  my  mind,  and  at  last  I  have  turned  away  with  a  feeling 
of  melancholy,  that  the  same  degree  of  exquisite  delight,  could  never 
be  mine  again,  that  the  charm  had  vanished  away  for  ever. 

But  to  proceed.  Gradually  the  streamlet  became  wider  and  wider, 
the  trees  on  either  bank  receded  further  and  further  from  each  other, 
until  at  last  several  rods  intervened  between  the  opposite  shores. 


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ADVENTURES  ON   THE  AMAZON.  485 

Althouflh  moantainous,  yet  the  scenery  along  the  banks  was  singu* 
larly  wOd  and  beautiful.  Dense  thickets  lined  the  shores,  and  groves 
of  bamboos  stretched  out  to  a  considerable  distance  in  the  water. 
Here  and  there,  an  opening  in  the  forest  disclosed  to  us  an  Indian 
wigwam,  at  the  same  time  giving  us  a  hasty  glimpse  of  its  swarthy 
inmates.  These  huts  of  the  natives  are  constructed  by  means  of 
poles  driven  in  the  ground,  over  which  a  light  roof,  composed  of 
bamboo  canes  and  palm  leaves  closely  matted  together,  is  securely 
fastened.  Being  generally  open  in  front,  a  good  view  of  the  interior 
is  thus  afforded  to  the  passing  traveller — who  sees  perhaps  a  group 
of  natives  seated  on  the  ground,  quietly  smoking  their  long  pipes,  or 
lounging  in  their  hammocks,  thumbing  with  their  fingers  the  strings 
of  a  species  of  violin  or  guitar,  which  they  hold  in  their  hand.  A 
variety  of  domesticated  animals  and  loquacious  parrots  completes 
the  scene,  which  to  the  eye  of  a  stranger  always  appears  eminently 
picturesque  and  interesting. 

As  we  proceeded  onward,  we  met  several  small  montarias  manned 
by  half-naked  Indians,  coming  in  the  opposite  direction.  Nothing 
is  more  deserving  of  notice  than  the  different  varieties  of  water-crafts 
that  one  encounters  in  sailinff  up  the  rivers  and  streams  of  Para. 
The  one  in  question  was  of  uie  simplest  construction,  being  made 
dtom  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  hollowed  out  by  the  aid  of  fire  and  rude  in- 
struments. Boats  of  this  description  are,  some  of  them,  so  light, 
that  they  may  easily  be  carried  trom  place  to  place  by  the  umted 
strength  of  two  persons.  They  are,  besides,  so  narrow,  and  draw  so 
little  water,  that  they  are  of  great  use  in  navigating  the  smallest 
streams.  It  is  a  curious  spectacle  to  see  one  of  these  singular  crafls 
filled  with  Indians,  paddling  rapidly  down  the  current  of  an  arboured 
stream  in  South  America— the  extraordinary  formation  of  the  boat 
itself,  the  strange  appearance  of  the  natives— the  simultaneous  dip- 
ping of  twenty  paddles,  and  the  glistening  of  the  silvery  spray,  is 
calculated  to  produce  an  impression  upon  the  mind  of  the  beholder 
so  palpably  distinct,  so  that  it  can  never  be  erased. 

Uigantic  moths  and  butterfiies  of  many  hues  were  continuallv 
flitting  near  us,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  a  long  netted  pole  which 
we  fortunately  had  on  board,  we  captured  several  fine  specimens. 
But  this  was  not  all, — with  our  faithful  guns,  we  shot  quite  a  variety 
of  shining  kingfishers  and  other  birds,  perched  upon  dry  stems 
jutting  out  over  the  water,  in  anxious  expectation  of  their  prey,  or 
slumbering  away  the  day  in  the  midst  of  their  lovely  sylvan  bowers. 

'<  Jack,"  said  my  companion  to  me,  sudden] v,  **  look  at  these  egrets 
along  the  shore — had  n't  we  better  try  and  give  them  a  shot?  They 
are  now  more  than  a  rifle  shot  off*,  but  by  keeping  perfectly  still  for 
a  few  moments,  we  can  doubtless  get  within  a  suitable  shooting 
distance." 

''By  all  means,"  exclaimed  I,  with  pleasure — "we  must  give 
these  tali  fellows  a  Yankee  salute.  How  majesticallv  they  walk 
along  the  beach !  how  symmetrical  their  delicate  forms  I  how  snowy 
white  their  plumage !" 

There  they  were  indeed  !*-twentv  as  handsome  birds  as  a  naturalist 
might  wish  to  behold — marching  slowly  along  the  shore,  in  quest  of 
their  favourite  food,  as  naturaUy  and  unsuspectingly  as  if  danger 
was  not  near. 

Our  men  scarcely  touched  the  water  with  their  paddles,  and  so 


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486  PARA;   OB, 

smoothly  did  we  glide  over  the  placid  sarface  of  the  water,  at  to 
leave  no  perceptible  wake  behind.  We  spoke  not>  but  kept  oar 
eyes  intently  fixed  upon  our  prey,  expecting  them  every  moment 
to  take  flight ;  at  last  I  raised  my  gun,  and  took  deliberate  aim — 
but  to  my  great  chagrin^  the  cap  alone  exploded,  alarming  the 
birds  by  the  sound,  who  rose  instantly  into  the  air.  But  a  sharp 
report  now  rung  on  my  ear  1 — the  ihoi  whittled  in  its  unerring  flight, 
and  down  came  two  of  the  charming  birds  stone  dead,  while  another, 
who  was  merely  winged,  ran  swiftly  along  the  shore.  As  we  were 
desirous  of  preserving  this  one  alive,  one  of  our  men  volunteered  to 
leave  the  boat  and  pursue  him.  Stripping  himself  for  this  purpose, 
he  jumped  into  the  water,  and  was  soon  in  rapid  chase  after  his 
victim.  The  spectacle  now  presented,  was,  to  say  the  least,  de- 
cidedly ludicrous ;  and  at  this  very  moment  we  see  the  poor  fellow 
in  our  imagination  lust  as  he  was  tiien,  in  puris  naturaUbus^  running 
with  surprising  velocity  after  that  ill-fated  birdl  Eventually  the 
feathered  biped  was  captured  by  our  hero,  who,  havins  secured  his 
prize,  triumphantly  started  out  for  the  boat,  with  the  burd  fluttering 
violently  in  one  of  his  hands.  As  he  was  wading  out  towards  us, 
throuffh  the  shallow  water,  he  suddenly  sunk  up  to  his  shoulders  in 
a  ^uioLsand,  and  was  wholly  unable  to  extricate  himself  from  his 
critical  situation.  But  the  fellow  acted  bravely,  and  still  continued 
to  hold  on  to  the  legs  of  his  white  pinioned  bird.  Forcing  our  craft 
up  to  him,  as  near  as  the  shaUowness  of  the  water  would  allow,  we 
succeeded  by  the  aid  of  a  pole  in  relieving  our  unfortunate  com^ 
panion  from  his  perilous  dilemma,  and  in  getting  him  once  more  on 
Doard*  The  bird  was  in  excellent  order,  his  delicate  snowy  plumage 
being  almost  unrufiBed.  He  proved  to  be  an  egret  of  the  largest  kira, 
and  was  characterized  by  long  legs,  eyes  of  a  bright  crimson,  and 
plumes  on  his  back  of  great  length,  and  irresistible  beauty.  The  bird 
manifested  but  little  fear,  and  soon  became  so  well  reconciled  to  his 
new  condition,  as  to  eat  food  from  our  hands.  He  survived  the 
excursion,  and  lived  with  us  in  a  state  of  perfect  domesticity  for 
many  days ! 

Perceiving  a  respectable-looking  cottage  peeping  from  amid  the 
shade  of  the  surrounding  foliage  on  the  bank  to  our  right,  we  be- 
thought ourselves  of  halting  for  a  short  time,  in  order  to  enjoy  a 
few  moments  relief  from  the  overpowering  heat  of  the  sun,  and  to 
refresh  our  envious  palates  with  a  taste  of  the  luscious  fruit  with 
which  the  adjacent  groves  were  bountifully  teeming. 

Guiding  our  boat  into  a  little  cove,  we  disembarked  and  secured 
it  firmly  to  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  The  proprietor  of  the  estate  met  us 
as  we  were  walking  up  towards  the  nouse,  gave  us  a  cordial  wel- 
come, and  invited  us  to  partake  of  some  fruit  and  wine  under  the 
shelter  of  his  commodious  verandah.  This  we  gladly  assented  to, 
and  forthwith  proceeded  to  the  house  with  our  kind  hearted  host, 
where  we  regaled  ourselves  upon  a  sumptuous  banquet  of  juicy 
oranges,  delectable  bananas,  and  sweet^flavoured  mangoes,  together 
with  some  delicious  bort,  and  a  rich  beverage  prepared  from  the 
fruit  of  the  cocoa  plant.  Having  sufficiently  refreshed  ourselves, 
we  strolled  for  a  short  Ume  about  the  garden,  previous  to  taking 
our  departure.  At  last  we  bade  farewell  to  our  hospitable  enter- 
tainer, and  prepared  to  resume  our  journey. 

Overhanging  the  Water  with  its  drooping  branches,  we  noticed  a 


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tree  of  prodigious  eizt,  literally  full  of  the  long  nests  of  the  yellow- 
rumped  oriole.  The  novelty  of  the  spectacle  did  not  fail  to  attract 
our  observation,  and  we  halted  for  a  few  moments  beneath  its  shade, 
in  order  to  scrutinize  the  motions  of  the  hundred  ffay-coloured 
birds  who  were  chattering  and  fluttering^  amid  the  thickness  of  the 
Ibliaffe.  The  general  colours  of  these  birds  were  black  and  yellow, 
strikingly  blended  together,  and  their  notes  were  shrill  and  discor- 
dant to  the  ear. 

It  is  a  singular  fact,  by  the  wav>  that  birds  of  bright  plumage, 
with  few  exceptions,  are  not  endowed  with  the  faculty  of  sone, 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  sweetest  warblers,  such  as  the  British 
nightingale  and  the  American  mocking-bird,  have  a  dull  and  unin- 
viting exterior. 

It  IS  almost  impossible  to  drive  these  orioles  from  their  nestinur 
trees !  If  you  have  a  heart  so  cruel,  you  may  continue  to  fire  at 
them  for  hours,  and  may  wantonly  destroy  half  their  number,  yet 
the  remainder  will  still  flutter  around  the  sacred  spot,  vainly  en- 
deavouring to  protect  their  helpless  ofispring,  to  whom  they  are 
strongly  bound  oy  those  mysterious  ties  which  death  alone  can  sun- 
der. The  natives  have  a  superstitious  dread  of  killing  these  beau- 
tiful birds,  and,  like  the  robin  redbreast  in  our  own  country,  they 
are  everywhere  protected  and  beloved. 

While  proceeding  onward,  we  fell  in  with  a  huge  and  fantastic 
Rio  Negro  Canoe,  on  her  return  from  a  long  voyage  far  up  the 
Amazon.  She  was  truly  a  most  comical  craft,  beuing  not  a  little 
resemblance  to  a  Chinese  junk.  Both  stem  and  stem  were  square, 
and  painted  in  a  very  singular  numner.  At  either  extremity  was  an 
apology  for  a  cabin,  over  each  of  which  was  an  awning,  made  of 
palm  leaves  thickly  matted  together.  Seated  on  the  auarter-deck^ 
was  the  pilot  or  captain;  on  nis  head  was  a  coarse  hat,  with  an 
enormous  brim— 4n  his  mouth,  an  Indian  pipe  of  considerable  length, 
while  in  his  right  hand  he  held  firmly  on  to  the  tiUer,  thus  control- 
ling the  languid  motions  of  his  very  extraordinary  vessel,  in  the  most 
comfortable  manner  imaginable  1 

As  the  breeze  was  extremely  light,  at  least  a  dozen  powerful 
looking  blacks  were  employed  in  rowing  the  canoe,  by  means  of 
poles  not  less  than  fifteen  feet  in  length,  on  the  extremities  of  which 
were  fastened  circular  pieces  of  wood  of  a  foot  or  more  in  diameter. 

A  number  of  unfortunare  natives  on  board  of  the  vessel  particu- 
larly attracted  our  notice.  Thev  were  yoked  two  and  two  together 
like  so  many  cattle,  by  huge  blocks  of'^  wood,  into  which  their  feet 
were  inserted.  These  pitiable  beings,  we  understood,  had  been 
seized  by  the  authorities  of  Rio  Negro  for  some  trivial  offence,  and 
were  now  being  transported  to  Para  for  the  purpose  of  enrolment 
in  the  army  for  life.  The  government  of  the.  province  is  in  constant 
fear  of  a  second  insurrection,  and  takes  this  means  therefore  of  add- 
ing to  its  strength ;  but  there  is  little  doubt,  however,  that  this  course, 
if  much  longer  persisted  in,  will  inevitably  result  in  the  very  end 
which  it  is  so  desirous  to  avert. 

In  addition  to  the  crew  and  Indians,  we  observed  several  beautiful 
Rio  Negro  girls,  whose  dreamy  eyes  and  dark  tresses,  hanging  in 
dishevelled  masses  over  their  handsomely  rounded  shoulders  and 
well-developed  bosoms,  lefl  an  impression  upon  our  susceptible  hearts 
that  was  not  soon  erased — and  often  afterwards  did  we  behold  them 


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in  our  dreams ;  bnt^  alas !  it  only  served  to  quicken  the  scene  of  our 
misery,  when  we  awoke  to  the  sad  consciousness  that  the  originals 
had  passed  away  from  our  optics— ^or  ever  I 

There  were  biesides  on  board  a  variety  of  rare  monkevs  and  other 
nimble  animals,  who  were  amusing  themselves  in  gambolling  with 
each  other  about  the  rigging ;  also  a  general  assortment  of  parrots 
and  long-tailed  macaws,  of  which  one  of  the  latter  was  conspicuously 
perched  upon  the  top  of  the  mast-head  itself,  looking  around  on  the 
picturesque  landscape  beneath  him  with  all  the  pride  and  dignity  of 
a  sovereign ! 

We  were  now  approaching  the  termination  of  our  short  but  in- 
teresting voyage.  We  were  sailing  between  two  charming  islands, 
whose  alternate  groves  and  plantations  of  sugar-cane,  waving  like 
fields  of  Indian-corn,  gave  a  variety  to  the  scene  which  was  exceed- 
ingly pleasing  to  the  eye.  The  grateful  fragrance  of  the  forest 
flowers  perfumed  the  air;  the  groves  were  alive  with  the  joyful 
voices  of  birds ;  and  the  surface  of  the  rippling  water  was  sparkling 
in  the  sunshine  like  a  mantle  of  diamonds.  So  perfectly  magnifi- 
cent  was  the  scene,  that  we  were  almost  willing  to  believe  that  we 
were  in  the  far-famed  land  of  the  fairies,  or  that  the  magic  wand 
of  the  enchantress  had  created  by  its  influence  the  lovely  landscape 
we  beheld. 

Suddenly  we  emerged  from  the  stream  into  the  broad  expanse  of 
the  river,  which  was  here  ten  or  twelve  miles  across  to  the  next  in- 
tervening island.  This  island  was  Maraji,  concerning  which  we 
shall  have  something  to  sa^  by  and  by. 

Not  more  than  a  mile  distant,  to  our  left,  the  white  sandy  beach 
and  red-tiled  msnsioos  of  Caripe  broke  upon  our  view.  It  was  a 
pleasant  sight,  and  we  gased  upon  it  earnestly,  and  with  increased 
delight,  as  its  distance  ft'om  us  became  gradually  diminished. 

Arriving  at  the  glistening  beach,  we  disembarked,  and  leaving 
the  boat  to  be  secured  by  the  men,  we  immediately  sought  the 
bouse.  We  found  the  building  to  be  large  and  in  good  condition, 
with  several  commodious  apartments,  and  a  snug  little  verandah  in 
front. 

The  surrounding  scenery  was  wild  and  diversified.  On  one  side 
was  a  dense  forest,  on  the  other  an  extensive  garden,  comprising 
flowers  and  plants  of  endless  varieties,  beyond  which  were  groves 
of  oranffe  and  other  fruit  trees,  and  thriving  fields  of  tufted  sugar- 
cane, wnile  before  us,  the  noble  river  of  the  Amazons  expanded  out 
like  a  sea  of  molten  silver  ! 

As  soon  as  we  had  sufficiently  rested  ourselves,  and  dispatched  a 
hastily  prepared  meal  of  boiled  sapine  and  milk,  we  took  a  walk  of 
exploration  and  investigation,  through  the  extensive  grounds  of 
Caripe. 

The  estate  was  evidently  in  a  sadly  dilapidated  condition,  and  so 
overgrown  with  gigantic  weeds  and  thick  shrubbery,  that  we  were 
freauently  obliged  to  use  our  long  *'  wood  knives,*'  which  we  carried 
witn  us  on  all  occasions,  in  order  to  effect  a  passage  through  them* 

While  walking  through  a  pleasant  grove,  one  of  our  men  climbed 
a  tall  cocoa-nut  tree,  and  threw  down  to  us  a  cluster  of  its  fine  fruit. 
They  were  hardly  ripe,  but  on  breaking  the  shell  of  one  of  them,  we 
found  its  contents  extremely  delicious;  in  consistency,  having 
nearly  the  appearence  of  cream,  and  in  richness  and  flavour  being 


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ADVENTURES  ON  THE  AMAZON.         489 

more  agreeable  to  our  palates  than  any  species  of  firuit  we  had 
tasted  before. 

Hearing  the  sadden  report  of  a  gun  near  by,  I  turned  my  eyes  in 
the  direction  from  whence  it  came,  and  perceived,  at  the  distance  of 
several  rods,  my  companion  Jenks  triumphantly  holding  a  small 
animal  in  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  grasped  the  barrel  of 
his  gun,  the  stock  of  which  rested  on  the  ground. 

**  Well  done,  Jenks  1"  exclaimed  I,  **  what  kind  of  an  animal 
have  you  killed  ?  You  are  truly  a  lucky  fellow  to  see  game,  and 
when  once  you  have  your  eye  upon  it,  its  destiny  is  told." 

*'  The  animal,"  replied  Jenks,  advancing  towards  us,  '*  is  called 
by  the  natives,  I  beneve,  a  paca,  and  a  very  handsome  little  crea« 
ture  it  is.  He  was  running  quickly  through  the  thicket  at  the 
moment  I  fired,  and  I  was  then  uncertain  whether  he  was  a  bird  or 
a  beast.  However,  I  determined  to  satisfy  my  curiosity,  so  I 
fired." 

The  animal  was  of  a  reddish  brown  colour,  with  rather  coarse 
hair,  and  a  head  resembling  in  shape  that  of  a  guinea-pig.  His  sides 
were  prettily  striped  with  white,  and  his  countenance  was  adorned 
with  whiskers  like  those  of  a  cat.  He  was  about  the  size  of  a  large 
rabbit,  and  very  fat.  The  flesh  of  the  paca  is  esteemed  a  spreat 
delicacy,  and  is  as  white  and  tender  as  that  of  a  chicken.  He  is 
nocturnal  in  his  habits,  and  sleeps  during  most  of  the  day.  They 
are  perfectly  innocent  and  harmless,  and  are  often  domesticated,  in 
which  state  they  are  auite  interesting  and  playful. 

Strolling  on  througn  the  woods,  it  was  not  long  before  one  of  our 
companions  espied  a  small  armadillo,  to  which  we  ffave  chase,  and 
soon  VBCoeeded  in  capturing.  He  was  a  comical  fellow,  with  a 
queer  looking,  dMop-pointoa  liead,  and  a  banded  coat-of-mail  al- 
most equal  to  that  of  Uie  tortoise  in  strength  and  solidity.  Animab 
of  this  kind  are  harmless,  and  live  chiefly  mi  vegetables  and  inaects, 
which  they  for  the  most  part  procure  during  the  night.  They  are 
furnished  by  Nature  with  powerful  claws,  with  which  they  are  en- 
abled to  dig  burrows  with  wonderful  facility.  Their  flesh  is  much 
relished  by  the  natives,  who  hunt  them  with  dogs,  and  dig  them 
out  of  the  deepest  recesses  of  their  subterranean  retreats.  When 
attacked,  they  roll  themselves  into  a  ball,  so  invulnerable  as  to  be 
secure  fi*om  the  assaults  of  most  of  their  pursuers.  Thus  does  an 
all- wise  Providence  provide  for  the  security  of  these  animals,  who, 
without  which  special  aid  would  be  utterly  unable  to  protect  them- 
selvesy  and  for  the  preservation  of  a  class  of  animals,  which  would 
otherwise  soon  became  extinct.  Verily,  Nature  is  but  the  written 
constitution  of  a  God,  designed  for  the  welfare  and  wise  governance 
of  the  boundless  universe ! 

Retracing  our  steps  to  the  house,  we  could  not  but  admire  the 
exuberant  foliage  by  which  we  were  surrounded.  The  trees  were 
in  close  proximity  to  each  other,  and  formed  an  umbrageous  canopy 
above  us,  by  the  meeting  of  their  drooping  branches.  Brilliant 
parasites  of  every  hue  glittered  like  stars  amid  the  emerald-like  ver- 
dure, grotesque  plants  of  mammoth  size  stood  around  us  —  glad 
birds  chattered  on  the  branches,  and  busy  insects  fluttered  in  the  air 
'—in  a  word,  the  whole  scene  was  wild,  romantic,  and  beautiful. 

Arriving  at  the  house,  we  observed  a  number  of  old  slaves  en- 
gaged in  making  farinha.    As  this  article  is  a  general  substitute  for 


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490  para;  or, 

bread  among  the  poorer  classes  throughout  the  province,  a  few  re- 
marks concerning  its  origin  and  manufacture,  may  not  prove  wholly 
uninteresting  to  the  reader. 

The  vegetable  (Jatropha  manihot)  from  which  the  farinha  is 
made  is  in  its  natural  state  considered  quite  poisonous,  and  is  en- 
^tirely  unfit  for  the  purposes  of  nutrition.  The  means,  therefore,  by 
which  its  pernicious  qualities  are  expelled,  and  the  nutritious  prin- 
ciple retained,  must  always  be  regarded  as  a  most  extraordinary  and 
invaluable  discovery. 

The  plant  is  a  native  of  Brazil,  and  was  known  to  the  natives  on 
their  first  intercourse  wiUi  the  white  men.  No  other  vegetable,  not 
even  wheat,  possesses  an  equal  degree  of  nutriment,  and,  together 
with  bananas  and  wild  meat,  it  constitutes  the  principal  item  of  the 
native  Brazilian's  bill  of  fare.  The  farinha  is  made  from  the  root, 
which  is  first  rasped  with  a  piece  of  indented  wood,  until  it  is  re- 
duced to  a  pulpy  consistency.  The  juice  is  then  effectually  express- 
ed in  the  following  singular  manner.  Large  circular  baskets  of 
plaited  rushes  are  filled  with  the  raspings  of  3ie  mandioca  root,  and 
then  suspended  from  the  branches  of  trees.  By  means  of  a  consider- 
able weight  of  stones  fastened  beneath,  the  rushes  are  drawn  tightly 
together,  and  most  of  the  liquid  squeezed  out.  After  this,  the 
pulpy  substance  is  exposed  on  skins  to  the  rays  of  the  sun,  for  the 
purpose  of  evaporating  all  the  remaining  moisture. 

The  juice  being  at  length  entirely  expressed,  the  pulp  is  placed 
on  large  earthenware  pans,  and  stirred  over  a  hot  fire  until  it  granu- 
lates ;  it  is  then  put  up  in  baskets  for  use.  The  manner  in  which 
the  natives  eat  the  farinha  is  very  amusing,  and  is  besides  perfectlv 
inimitable.  Taking  a  quantity  of  it  in  one  of  their  hands,  by  a  skil- 
ful motion  of  their  arm  they  toss  every  particle  of  it  into  their 
mouths,  and  it  seldom  happens  that  any  is  wasted  in  this  manner. 
I  have  frequently  attempted  to  imitate  them,  but  I  found  that  the 
feat  required  more  legerdemain  talent  than  I  was  master  of,  and 
that  on  every  trial  my  mouth  was  but  Uttle  better  supplied  with  the 
granulated  material  than  either  my  nose  or  eyes. 

A  milk-white  substance  is  deposited  by  the  juice  of  the  mandioca 
root,  which  being  collected,  and  hardened  by  exposure  to  the  sun, 
constitutes  the  article  so  well  known  as  tapioca,  from  which  such 
wholesome  and  delicious  puddings  are  made.  So  very  poisonous  is 
the  root  in  its  natural  state,  that  it  has  been  found  to  occasion  death 
in  a  few  minutes  when  administered  experimentally  to  animals,  and 
it  is  said  that  the  natives  used  it  with  great  effect  many  years  ago  in 
destroying  their  Spanish  persecutors.  It  has  been  ascertained  by 
dissection  that  this  poison  operates  by  means  of  the  nervous  system, 
producing  immediate  convulsions  and  exquisite  torments,  as  soon  as 
it  is  introduced  into  the  stomach.  In  some  instances  it  has  been 
used  in  the  execution  of  criminals,  in  which  cases  death  invariably 
ensued  within  from  five  to  ten  minutes  after  its  imbibition.  The 
fatal  principle  appears  to  exist  in  certain  gases,  which  are  dissipated 
bv  heat.  This  is  conclusively  proved,  from  the  harmlessness  and 
highly  nutritious  properties  of  the  farinha,  when  the  process  of  its 
manufacture  has  been  completed. 

It  has  been  stated,  on  good  authority,  that  a  single  acre  of  land 
planted  with  the  mandioca  root,  will  afford  nourishment  to  more 
persons  than  six  acres  of  wheat  planted  in  the  same  manner,  and  my 


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own  observation  fully  justifies  this  assertion.  Is  it  not  then  very 
desirable,  that  this  useful  plant  should  be  carefully  examined  by 
men  of  science,  and  suitable  efforts  made  for  introducing  it  into 
other  countries  ?  Perhaps  it  might  prove,  with  proper  culture,  as 
great  a  blessing  to  the  unfortunate  poor  of  Ireland  as  it  is  now  to 
Uie  ignorant  and  untutored  Indians  of  Brazil !  Concerning  the  value 
of  xMs  plant,  Southey  remarks  with  truth,  that  "  If  Ceres  deserved 
a  place  in  the  mythology  of  Greece,  far  more  miffht  the  deification 
or  that  person  have  been  expected,  who  instructed  his  fellows  in  the 
use  of  mandioc !" 

Being  near  sunset  when  we  arrived  at  the  house,  we  lost  no  time 
in  going  down  to  the  river's  side,  to  undergo  a  refreshing  ablution 
in  Its  pure  and  sparkling  waters.  For  this  purpose,  there  is  no 
spot  better  adapted  by  Nature  than  the  beach  at  Caripe.  So  gradual 
is  the  slope  of  the  bank  that,  at  high  tide,  a  person  can  wade  out  for 
several  hundred  rods  without  getting  beyond  his  depth.  During 
the  spring  tides,  the  water  rises  and  fidls  full  fifteen  feet.  The  strand 
is  hard,  and  is  composed  of  the  finest  white  sand,  and  is  as  smooth 
and  clean  as  the  fioor  of  a  ball-room. 

The  water  was  remarkably  transparent,  insomuch  that  we  could 
distinctly  discern  snowy  pebbles  and  unique  shells  lying  on  the 
bottom  at  the  distance  of  many  feet.  Its  surface  was  mantled  with 
all  the  splendour  of  the  setting  sun,  and  a  beautiful  sight  was  it  for 
us  to  watch  the  mimic  waves,  tinged  with  the  sunbeams,  as  they 
sportively  broke  upon  the  shore. 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  we  plunged  and  swam  and  bespattered 
one  another,  as  playfully  and  nappy  as  a  party  of  innocent  mer« 
maids  bathing  in  their  own  enchanted  lake.  No  ravenous  sharks  or 
ferocious  caymans  were  here  to  molest  us !  No  clawed  monsters, 
not  even  a  crab  or  a  lobster  did  we  see ;  but  hosts  of  gold  and  silver^ 
gleaming  fishes  were  continually  darting  like  so  many  little  fairy 
sprites  around  us  I 

With  spirits  gay  and  our  bodies  all  in  a  fflow,  we  at  last  came  out 
of  the  water.  Parting  day  had  sped ;  and  when  again  we  reached 
the  house,  bright  stars  were  peeping  from  the  sky  ! 

It  was  evening,  and  never  shall  we  forget  it  while  the  pulse  of 
life  throbs  in  our  viens.  The  deep  silence,  the  wild  beauty  of  the 
scenery,  the  tranquillity  of  the  river,  spread  out  like  a  lake,  and  the 
reflection  of  the  stars  on  its  surface,  tomther  with  the  immense  dis- 
tance that  intervened  between  ourselves  and  home,  impressed  us 
with  feelings  of  strange  solemnity,  bordering  on  sadness ;  and  such 
we  opine,  kind  reader,  would  have  been  your  own  sentiments  under 
circumstances  as  solemnn  and  sublime! 


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492 
CHARLES  EDWARD  STUART; 

OR, 

VICISSITUDES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  ROYAL  EXILE. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  THB   MILITARY  CARBBR  OF  THE  CELBBRATSD 
EARL   OF  PETERBOROUGH." 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive,  that  within  the  comparatiyely  recent  period 
of  two  hundred  years  the  dynasty,  now  so  firmly  rooted  in  the  hearts  of 
the  people  and  the  institutions  of  the  country,  should  have  been  not  only 
seriously  threatened,  but  eminently  endangered.  The  politics,  preju* 
dices,  and  passions  of  those  days  have  now  scarcely  a  name  among  us, 
and  the  loyalty  which  dared  death  and  ruin  for  one  race,  has  transferred 
itself,  by  the  almost  irresistible  action  of  time  and  circumstances,  to  their 
successful  rivals,  untainted  and  undiminished,  never  again,  we  trust,  to 
be  tried  in  the  furnace  of  adversity,  or  directed  into  another  channel. 
The  instinct  of  reverence  is  so  strong  in  the  hearts  of  our  islanders,  that 
it  must  ever  find  an  object  whereon  to  fix  itself.  The  ivy  which  has  for 
centuries  ornamented  the  towers  of  some  baronial  pile,  may  droop  and 
wither  when  first  trained  to  the  usurping  walls  of  the  modern  mansion, 
raised  on  the  venerable  foundations  of  the  former  building, — ^but  as  the 
young  sprouts  shoot  out,  by  little  and  little  they  attach  themselves  to 
their  new  support,  and  as  years  roll  on  even  the  tough  and  gnarled  tree 
adapts  itself  to  the  change,  and  clasps  its  rude  arms  closely  round  its 
adopted  lord.  Fifty  years  after  the  last  effort  of  the  Stuarts,  we  find  the 
national  heart  fixed  upon  the  house  of  Brunswick  with  a  firmness,  which 
even  the  tremendous  shock  of  the  French  Revolution  could  not  disturb. 

Much  as  we  have  reason  to  thank  the  Great  Ruler  of  the  Universe  for 
the  triumph  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  in  the  year  1 745,  a  deep  and 
mournful  interest  must  ever  hang  over  the  brief  history  of  the  weak  but 
chivalrous  and  gallant  youth,  who,  in  spite  of  false  or  lukewarm  friends, 
and  powerful  and  inveterate  foes,  made  such  a  brave,  though  fruitless, 
struggle  for  his  hereditary  crown  and  faith.  The  devoted  hearts  that  once 
beat  high  with  loyal  hopes  for  his  success  have  long  since  returned  to 
their  native  clay ;  their  stirring  songs  echo  no  more  among  Scotland's 
rocky  hills,  the  lovely  glens  where  the  clans  gathered  for  their  last  gene- 
rous effort  are  lonely  and  deserted  now,  while  the  descendants  of  their 
shepherd  warriors  toil  in  the  dark  and  squalid  purlieux  of  Glasgow,  or 
seek  a  home  among  the  snowy  hills  of  Canada.  Still  at  times,  even  amidst 
the  anxious  struggle  of  the  present  day,  through  the  din  of  railways  and 
spinning-jennies,  the  clamours  of  patriots,  and  the  droning  of  economists, 
— ^when  we  hear  some  strain  of  Scotland's  last  anointed  king^  some  ballad 
chronicling  his  high  hopes  and  sad  story, — our  pulse  beats  quicker  to 
the  measure,  and  we  wonder  no  more  how  the  ''  bonneted  chieftains  ** 
risked  their  life  and  land  for  "  bonnie  Prince  Charlie." 

Among  the  exciting  and  important  events  of  later  times,  many  have 
forgotten  much  of  the  story  of  that  short  period  when  Charles  Stuart 
shook  England  like  an  earthquake ;  anxious  and  critical  as  was  the  day, 
it  has  left  but  little  impress  on  subsequent  events ;  the  tale  is  nothing 
more  than  an  episode  in  the  great  drama  of  England's  history.     Even 


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CHARLES  EDWARD   OTUART.  493 

as  such  we  inist  that  a  brief  sketch  of  the  last  struggle  for  royalty  of 
the  race  of  Stuart,  may  not  be  uninterestiDg  and  uninstructive  to  our 
readers. 

Charles  Edward  Stuart  was  bom  in  the  year  1721,  in  the  ''Eternal 
City,**  the  capital  of  the  Roman  Catholic  world,  fit  birth-place  for  the 
prince  who  was  to  wage  so  braye  a  battle  for  the  supremacy  of  the 
popish  faith.  Though  the  exiled  court  was  a  mere  shadow,  all  the  high- 
born men  who  still  adhered  to  its  ruined  fortunes  were  summoned  to 
attend  the  birth  of  their  young  prince.  They  readily  heaped  upon  him 
the  loye  and  yeneration  which  his  father's  incapacity  had  forfeited.  His 
birth  was  to  them  the  birth  of  hope,  they  fondly  expected  that  his  faith 
might  be  strong  as  that  of  his  sire,  without  its  puerile  superstition, 
and  through  his  means  the  triumphs  of  the  future  might  erase  the  pain- 
ful memory  of  the  past 

Probably  Charles  Stuart  was  indebted  to  his  mother  for  whateyer 
portion  of  yigour  he  possessed,  and  the  undoubted  courage  which  he 
aflerwards  displayed ;  under  her  eye  his  character  was  first  formed,  and 
his  earliest  instructions  receiyed.  It  is  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  im- 
portance of  maternal  influence  on  the  future  career  and  disposition ;  in 
the  plastic  state  of  infancy  impressions  are  readily  receiyed,  which  harden 
into  the  form  and  fashion  of  the  manly  mind.  Buonaparte  and  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  were  both  brought  up  under  the  care  of  widowed  mothers, 
and  haye  found  cause  to  attribute  to  these  gifted  women  the  deyelop* 
ment  of  many  of  the  rare  and  commanding  qualities  which  distinguished 
their  after  liyes. 

The  friend  and  pupil  of  Pension,  the  gifted  Cheyalier  de  Ramsay,  was 
chosen  as  the  instructor  of  the  yoimg  Prince  in  the  rudiments  of  educa-' 
tion ;  we  find  that  the  boy  made  a  quicker  progress  in  the  graceful  and 
ornamental  branches  of  his  studies  than  in  the  more  solid  and  practical 
aoqoiremenu;  he  delighted  in  music  and  poetry,  but  his  imagination 
eyen  in  his  yery  boyhood,  wandered  away  from  the  blue  skies  and  impe- 
rial memories  of  Rome,  to  the  stem  and  misty  land  where  he  felt  his 
future  destiny  was  laid. 

England  was  always  his  paramount  interest ;  he  eagerly  sought  the 
society  of  Englishmen  wheneyer  opportunity  offered,  and  frequent  allu- 
sions to  his  future  enterprise  were  introduced  in  his  conyersation.  When 
still  a  mere  boy,  he  showed  great  disregard  of  personal  danger  at  the 
si^e  of  Gaeta,  under  the  guidance  of  his  relation,  Marshal  Berwick ; 
many  a  hope  was  raised  in  the  hearts  of  his  adherents  by  his  fearless 
bearing, — ^hopes  to  be  finally  extinguished  on  the  bloody  field  of  CuUo* 
den.  The  fayourable  impression  giyen  by  his  conduct  at  Gaeta,  was 
confirmed  by  his  graceful  courtesy  at  Naples ;  and  the  next  summer  a 
short  campaign  in  Lombardy  contmued  his  education  as  a  soldier.  He 
then  yisited  many  of  the  principal  Italian  cities,  and  met  eyerywhere  the 
reception  of  a- royal  prince.  For  seyeral  subsequent  years  he  remained 
in  Rome,  haying  no  occupation  beyond  the  fleeting  amusements  of  the 
hour ;  music  and  hunting  filled  up  the  measure  of  his  time,  and  such 
success  as  these  pursuits  afforded  he  eminently  gained.  The  boar-hunt 
of  the  Pontine  Marshes  well  suited  his  actiye  and  daring  temperament, 
the  degree  of  hardship  and  eyen  the  danger  of  the  chase  afforded  him  a 
keener  enjoyment  than  the  softer  pleasures  of  the  Imperial  City,  and 
kept  aliye  in  his  breast  that  spirit  of  adyenture  which  in  after  times  was 
80  nearly  rewarded  with  hb  ancestral  crown. 


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494  CHARLES  EDWARD  STUART. 

The  war  of  the  Aastrian  succession  seemed  at  length  to  ofier  the 
ardently  hoped-for  opportunity  of  making  his  attempt  upon  England. 
France  was  deeply  interested  in  the  struggle,  and  the  most  eflfectual 
means  of  paralyzing  the  British  power  was  evidently  to  occupy  it  in  pre- 
serving its  very  existence  at  home.  Most  sanguine  hopes  were  enter- 
tained by  the  partisans  of  the  exiled  fefmily,  that  the  first  summons  of 
the  Chevalier  de  St.  George  would  raise  all  the  bold  spirits  of  the  North, 
and  warm  even  the  doubtful  loyalty  of  the  English  people.  Marshal 
Saxe  g^ve  his  illustrious  name  as  leader  of  the  projected  invasion  of 
England,  and  an  army  of  fifteen  thousand  men  was  placed  at  his  disposal 
for  the  expedition.  The  counsel  and  commands  of  the  young  Prince 
Charles  Edward  were,  to  regulate  in  Paris  the  progress  of  the  scheme, 
but  his  departure  from  Rome,  and  arrival  at  the  French  capital  were  to 
be  kept  profoundly  secret,  and  the  necessary  negotiations  were  carried 
on  by  two  particular  agents,  the  Bailli  de  Tencin  and  Cardinal  Acqua- 
viva,  instead  of  by  the  accredited  ambassador.  Charles  Edward  made 
a  hunting  in  the  Pontine  Marshes  the  pretext  for  his  departure  from 
Rome ;  under  the  plea  of  an  accident,  he  separated  from  his  companions, 
disguised  himself  as  a  courier,  and  rode  night  and  day  for  Genoa,  whence 
he  embarked  m  a  small  vessel  for  Antibes.  The  winds  warred  against 
him  even  in  this  early  stage  of  his  career,  he  met  with  great  delay  and 
difficulty,  and  had  a  very  narrow  escape  of  falling  into  the  hands  of  some 
English  cruisers ;  upon  these,  enemies  though  they  then  were,  he  could  not 
help  looking  with  admiration  and  the  pride  of  anticipated  ownership.  On 
the  1  dth  of  January,  he  and  one  companion  reached  Antibes,  g^ve  assumed 
names  as  Englishmen,  and  rode  post  to  Paris  without  any  further  delay 
than  an  hour's  interview  with  the  faithful  Duke  of  Ormond,  at  Avignon. 

The  disappointments,  difficulties,  and  delays  he  encountered  at  Paris 
were  triumphed  over  by  his  spirit  and  energy.  At  last  he  embarked  on 
board  the  Doutelle,  and  after  escaping  the  various  dangers  that  beset  his 
perilous  trojet  from  France,  Prince  Charles  Edward  landed  at  Moidart 
in  Scotland.  His  reception  was  most  unpromising.  The  few  Scottish 
chieftains  who  ventured  to  approach  him,  pronounced  his  enterprise 
hopeless,  and  positively  declined  to  share  in  it,  unless  actually  supported 
by  the  French  succours,  upon  which  the  Jacobites  had  calculated.  The 
spirit  of  the  Prince^  however,  sustained  him  under  all  discouragement, 
and  his  irresistible  personal  influence  not  only  kindled  the  spark  of  hope 
that  lingered  m  the  breast  of  some  of  the  despondent,  but  succeeded  at 
last  in  securing  the  active  co-operation  of  many  who  looked  upon  his 
undertaking  as  desperate. 

A  little  army  was  soon  mustered  by  the  waters  of  the  Finnin,  and  at 
the  first  rendezvous  of  the  dans,  on  the  19th  August  (1745),  James 
VIIL  was  proclaimed  king  of  Great  Britain.  His  appointment  of 
Charles  Edward  as  regent  of  the  kingdom  was  then  read  aloud,  while 
many  a  wild  shout,  and  wilder  pibroch,  echoed  from  the  neighbouring 
hills,  and  the  red  and  white  standard  of  the  Stuarts  was  unfurled  on 
the  mound  above  them  by  the  Marquis  of  Tullibardine,  the  royal- 
standard-bearer  of  Scotland.  He  had  accompanied  Charles  from 
France. 

The  retreat  of  Sir  John  Cope  before  the  newly-raised  forces  of  the 
prince  contributed  to  excite  their  spirit  and  confidence ;  they  appeared 
before  Edmburgh,  and  the  city  surrendered  without  an  attempt  at  oppo- 
sition.   James  VIII.  was  proclaimed  King  at  the  City  Cross.     Here 


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CHARLES  EDWARD  STUART.  495 

Prince  Charles  was  joined  by  several  noblemen  of  distinction,  and  a 
lai^  amount  of  supplies  for  his  army  was  raised  from  the  towns-people. 

In  the  meantime  Sir  John  Cope  had  repented  him  of  bis  hasty  re- 
treat ;  he  advanced  towards  Edinburgh,  and  took  up  a  position  near 
Preston  Pans.  The  results  of  the  engagement  that  here  took  place  are 
well  known.  Never  was  any  victory  more  complete ;  the  military  chest, 
cannon,  camp  equipage,  baggage,  and  colours  of  the  royal  army  fell  into 
the  hands  of  the  victors.  Charles  lost  but  forty  men  at  Preston  Pans ; 
on  the  side  of  his  enemies  ten  times  as  many  were  left  upon  tbe  field, 
and  fifteen  hundred  prisoners  yielded  up  tbeir  arms.  Indeed,  the  in- 
fantry may  be  said  to  have  been  totally  destroyed,  and  the  dragoons 
were  only  saved  by  an  early  flight  and  tbe  speed  of  their  horses. 

Had  Charles^  after  this  victory,  marched  at  once  upon  London,  he 
might  probably  have  won  his  crown  before  the  English  government  could 
have  raised  troops  or  recalled  forces  from  Flanders.  But,  instead  of 
taking  advantage  of  this  first  brilliant  good-fortune,  he  returned  to  Ho- 
lyrood  palace,  and  indulged  in  the  vain  but  fascinating  parade  of  royalty. 
His  own  wish,  indeed,  had  been  to  enter  England  then,  borne  on  the 
swelling  tide  of  success ;  but  his  council  advised  differently,  nu^ified 
the  dangers  of  the  undertaking,  and  doubted  the  prospects  of  meeting 
with  support  from  any  large  body  of  the  English  Jacobites.  In  the  end 
they  carried  their  point,  and  Edinburgh  be^une  the  Capua  of  Charles 
and  his  army.  There,  surrounded  and  intoxicated  with  the  flatteries  of 
admiring  enthusiasts  or  needy  expectants,  and  charmed  by  the  devotion 
of  the  Jacobite  ladies,  who  sought  his  princdy  notice,  he  wasted  the  pre- 
cious time  in  issuing  fruitless  manifestos  and  conducting  useless  negotir 
ations  with  doubtful  adherents  and  concealed  enemies.  His  half-civilised 
followers,  meanwhile,  exhausted  their  nerve  and  courage,  either  in  vain 
efforts  to  reduce  the  castle,  or  in  idleness  and  social  indulgence.  A  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  army,  however,  was  encamped  at  Duddingstone, 
two  miles  from  the  city,  where  they  lived  in  the  open  air,  despising  the 
shelter  of  the  tents,  which  formed  part  of  the  spoil  of  Cope's  army ;  here 
they  loved  to  sit  round  their  watch-fires,  listening  to  the  songs  and  tales 
of  the  days  of  Bruce  and  Wallace,  and  Scotland's  early  glory.  Charles 
of^en  visited  them,  and  strengthened  the  strong  affection  they  already 
bore  him,  by  listening  to  and  applauding  their  bards,  and  by  words  of 
kindliness  and  interest :  on  some  occasions  he  even  passed  the  night 
among  them  in  the  camp. 

The  Lords  Kilmarnock,  Balmerino,  Pitsligo,  Elcho,  and  Ogilvie  join- 
ed him  with  their  followers ;  from  the  Lowland  cities  a  few  volunteers 
swelled  his  ranks,  and  several  clans,  that  had  for  a  time  hesitated  to  join 
him,  poured  down  from  the  mountains  at  the  joyful  news  of  his  first 
victory.  The  arrival  of  the  Marquis  d'Eguilles  from  France  with  arms, 
ammunition,  and  abundant  promises,  though  he  was  not  actually  acknow- 
ledged as  an  ambassador,  helped  to  raise  his  hopes,  and  give  confidenoe 
to  his  adherents.  He  then  determined  to  delay  no  more  his  march  into 
England.  '*  I  will  raise  my  banner  there  as  I  did  in  ScotlaDd,**  said  he 
to  his  council ;  '<  the  faithful  subjectf  of  my  father  will  gather  round  it, 
and  with  them  I  will  either  conquer  or  die.**  The  council  yielded,  and 
the  advance  commenced. 

Charles's  army  numbered  about  six  thousand  infantry  and  two  hun- 
dred and  sixty  horse ;  the  Duke  of  Perth  and  Lord  George  Murray, 
who  had  both  won  high  distinction  at  Preston  Pans,  commanded  under 

VOL.  xziii.  o  o 


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496  CHARLES   EDWARD   STUART. 

bim.  Seven  guns  and  foar  mortan  fermed  his  artillery.  Tlie  little 
army  was  earnest  in  the  cause,  inspired  by  bope  and  by  the  confidence 
of  a  past  success ; — here  lay  their  main  strength.  We  may  well  be  asto- 
nished at  the  audacity  which  prompted  the  inyasion  of  England  with  suck 
a  force,  and  alarmed  at  the  success  which  so  nearly  attended  it.  On  the 
evening  of  Thursday,  the  91st  of  October,  Charles  began  his  expedilion, 
and  left  Holyrood  House.  He  never  saw  it  again.  Flaeing  himself  at 
the  head  of  one  division  of  the  army,  he  pushed  on  for  Kelso ;  the  Mar- 
quis of  Tullibardioe  led  another  upon  Peebles,  while  detachasents  were 
directed  by  Selkirk  and  Moss-pauL  AC  Redding,  in  Cumberland,  the 
little  army  was  to  re-assemble. 

Id  the  meantime  England  had  not  been  idle ;  six  thousand  Dutch 
troops  were  landed  in  the  country,  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  led  over  the 
experienced  battalions  who  had  been  engaged  in  the  war  in  Flanders ; 
the  militia  of  ey&rj  county  were  assembled.  A  generous  trust  was 
shewn  in  distributing  arms  to  the  people,  and  t^  spirit  of  the  nation 
responded  to  the  confidence  of  the  grovemment. 

Charles's  march  into  England  was  attended  with  ahemate  success  and 
disappointment ;  unhoped-for  succour  joined  him,  and  those  he  most  de- 
pended on  hiked  of  their  adhesion.  It  was,  however,  at  the  very  time 
his  prospects  appeared  most  favourable,  that  the  chieftains  who  ac- 
companied him  were  seised  with  sudden  despondea^,  and  insisted  on  a 
retreat  inU>  Scotland.  The  prince  himself  and  the  soldiers,  who  ima- 
gined themselves  on  the  path  of  assured  success,  were  equally  astonished 
and  disgusted  at  the  decisicm  of  the  war  conncil ;  but  it  proved  final,  and 
the  melancholy  retreat  oonunenced.  At  Derby  the  council  had  been 
held — 'from  Derby  the  homeward  march  of  the  Scottish  forces  began. 

When  Charles  returned  to  Soodand,  with  bli^^ed  hopes  and  di^eart- 
ened  and  worn-out  followers,  he  found  that  General  Hawley  had  taken 
possession  of  Edinburgh,  and  that  many  of  his  former  adherents  had 
returned  to  their  allegiance  to  the  hovse  of  Hanover.  Some  fkTourable 
circumstances,  however,  still  existed.  During  his  absence  in  the  south 
a  considerable  force  had  been  organised  at  Perth,  as  a  reserve  to  oons- 
plete  his  expected  success,  or  to  form  a  rallying-^ground  in  case  of  de- 
feat These,  when  added  to  Charles's  former  army,  nused  his  strength 
to  nearly  nine  thousand  men.  Thus  reinforced,  he  marched  upon  Stir- 
ling, took  the  town  io  two  days,  and  laid  siege  to  ^  castle.  In  this  he 
had  undertaken  a  most  difficult  task. 

General  Hawley  resolved  to  run  the  risk  of  a  battle  rather  than  incur 
the  loss  of  this  important  post  He  marched  upon  Stirlmg  with  1^ 
force  he  could  at  once  assemble,  amounting  to  about  eight  thousand 
men  i  he  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to  await  the  arrival  of  reinforcements, 
then  houriy  expected.  The  event  did  not  justify  his  confidence :  on  the 
field  of  Falkirk  Charles  Edward  gamed  a  briHiaaC  and  almost  bloodless 
victory ;  but  this  was  **  fortune's  parting  smile"  upon  the  house  of  Stuart 

Dissensions  amongst  his  followers  now  proved  t^  ruin  of  the  prince's 
cause ;  the  precious  time  was  lost  in  idle  contentions  among  themselvce 
and  vain  efhris  against  the  fatal  castle  of  Stirling.  The  disastrous 
retreat  from  Derby  had  still  left  its  demoralising  effeet  upon  the  army ; 
it  was  impossible  to  keep  this  loosely  organised  body  tog^er  in  ^  ex- 
citemeiit  either  of  victory  or  defeat,  and  desertion  became  general,  dimi- 
nishing his  Uule  army  to  an  alarming  extent.  Had  he  at  once  marched 
upon  Edinburgh  while  the  roar  of  his  conquering  artillery  still  echoed 


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CHARLES  EDWARD   STUART.  497 

en  tbe  ears  of  the  terrified  citizens,  there  is  but  little  doubt  that  be 
could  have  agiun  entered  bis  capital,  and  once  more  raised  tbe  hopes  and 
oonfidence  of  bis  followers  by  directing  their  movements  from  tbe  palace 
of  bis  ancestors. 

Charles  Edward  took  up  his  residence  at  tbe  castle  of  Bannockbum 
during  the  siege  of  Stirling ;  the  neighbouring  chiefs  and  gentrv  well 
affscted  to  bis  cause  took  this  opportunity  of  presenting  their  families  to 
their  beloved  prince,  keeping  up  as  much  as  possible  the  semblance  of  a 
Court  Among  the  high-born  Scottish  maidens  who  came  before  him 
was  one  of  a  noble  air  and  remarkable  beauty,  the  daughter  of  tbe  Baron 
of  Baronsfield.  She  made  a  deep  impression  on  Charles,  and  with  her 
the  devotion  oi  woman's  love  was  soon  added  to  the  loyalty  of  a  faithful 
subject  From  earliest  childhood  the  name  of  tbe  prince  had  been  ever 
before  her ;  his  winning  manners  and  graceful  person  realised  all  her 
anticipations,  while  the  romance  and  danger  of  hb  situation  awakened 
the  tenderest  interest  in  her  young  heart  In  the  many  unemployed 
hours  of  a  tedious  siege  the  prince  bad  abundant  leisure  for  long  inter- 
views, without  apparently  interfering  with  his  duties  as  a  general.  This 
asBooiatioB  had  such  a  charm  for  his  ardent  and  romantic  mind,  that  an 
unwillingness  to  break  it  was  probably  one  of  tbe  main  reasons  of  the 
delay  before  Stirling,  in  its  resulta  so  fatal  to  his  cause.  He  was  sin- 
cere and  earnest  in  his  affection ;  the  hope  of  placing  her  he  loved  by 
hu  side  on  the  throne  of  Scotland  became  the  most  cherished  feeling  of 
his  heart ;  her  noble  birth,  the  devotion  of  her  family  to  his  cause,  and 
her  powerful  eonneetions  seemed,  even  in  a  prudential  point  of  view,  to 
justify  his  choice. 

The  lady's  name  was  Clementine ;  she  was  the  godchild  of  Charles' 
mother.  The  cause  of  this  connexion  is  so  blended  with  the  history  of 
the  Stuarts,  that  it  may  not  be  here  out  of  place  to  notice  it  In  the 
year  1719  arrangements  bad  been  completed  for  the  marriage  of  the 
Chevalier  de  St  George  with  tbe  Princess  Mary  Casimir  Clemratine, 
grand-daughter  of  Sob^eski,  the  heroic  King  of  Poland.  Her  father 
not  having  been  elected  to  the  throne,  was  living  under  the  protection 
of  Oharke  VI.  in  Austria.  The  betrothed  were  both  exiled,  and  de- 
barred from  their  ancestral  dignities,  but  the  princess  was  still  thought 
to  be  the  possessor  of  immense  wealth.  George  II.  of  England  ad- 
dressed a  strong  remonstnmce  to  the  emperor  on  hearing  of  this  pro- 
jected alliance,  which  wonld  so  much  strengthen  the  hands  of  the 
claimant  for  his  throne,  urging  that  its  accomplishment  should  be  pre- 
v^ited  by  the  interference  ci  the  imperial  authority.  Charles  VI.  at 
onee  acceded  to  this  demand ;  the  young  princess  was  arrested  with  her 
mother  at  Innspruck,  while  endeavouring  to  escape  to  Italy,  and  shut 
up  in  a  convent. 

The  question  of  James's  marriage  was  of  deep  interest  to  the  Jacobite 
cause,  and  tbe  steps  taken  by  the  English  king  to  prevent  it,  aroused 
the  partiscms  of  tbe  Stuarts  to  the  most  indigaaat  anger.  John  Walken* 
shaw,  Baron  of  Baronsfield,  one  of  those  who  had  been  driven  into 
exHe  in  consequence  of  his  share  in  tbe  insurrection  of  1716,  was  stiQ 
the  devoted  adherent  of  the  fallen  king ;  this  faithful  noble  determined 
to  risk  his  life  in  the  attempt  to  gain  the  freedom  of  the  captive  prin- 
cess, having  first  vainly  tried  by  every  means  in  his  power  to  induce  tbe 
emperor  to  restore  her  to  liberty.  Captain  Toole,  Wogan,  Major 
Wisselt,  and  his  wife,  were  to  assist  him  and  share  the  hazard  of  the 

o  o  2 


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498  CHARLES  EDWARD  STUART. 

enterprize«  Under  the  name  of  the  Count  de  Cernes,  he  obtained  an 
Austrian  passport  for  himself  and  his  party,  as  pilgrims  to  Loretto. 
Lady  Walkenshaw  represented  the  Countess,  Wogan,  her  brother-in- 
law.  The  services  of  a  clever  waiting-maid  were  engaged  by  the  pro- 
mise of  a  reward^  and  the  prospect  of  an  adventurous  intrigue :  her  part 
was  to  pass  as  the  Countess  de  Cernes*  sister  while  on  their  journey, 
and  to  change  places  with  the  princess  in  her  place  of  confinement 
should  they  be  so  fortunate  as  to  effect  the  substitution.  The  adven- 
turers reached  Innspruck  without  having  created  the  slightest  suspicion. 
Means  were  found  to  inform  the  fair  prisoner  of  their  presence,  who 
was  delighted  at  the  hope  of  escape.  The  quick-witted  maid  changed 
dresses  with  the  princess,  and  took  her  place  in  the  convent,  while  the 
liberated  captive  and  her  faithful  friends  made  all  haste  for  the  Vene- 
tian frontier.  They  then  passed  on  to  the  Papal  States,  and  on  arriving 
at  Bologna  the  marriage  of  the  Chevalier  de  St  George  and  the  Prin- 
cess Clementine  was  celebrated  by  proxy.  The  noble  Baronsfield  re- 
fused all  offers  of  reward  for  his  important  and  arduous  services,  but 
E rayed  that  the  princess  would  be  sponsor  for  his  child,  should  he  ever 
ave  the  happiness  of  being  a  father.  Some  time  afterwards  he  had  a 
daughter;  Clementine  was  her  godmother,  and  the  child  received  her 
name  at  the  baptismal  font.  This  was  the  heroine  of  Charles  Edward's 
mournful  tragedy. 

In  Clementine's  love  for  the  young  prince,  no  mean  ambition  of  rank 
and  splendour  found  a  place ;  her  clear  and  powerful  mind,  undazsled 
by  his  transient  gleam  of  success,  saw  the  darkness  of  the  coming 
future.  Her  ambition  was,  to  be  his  stay  in  misfortune,  the  solace  ci 
his  exile.  She  sought  him  out  in  the  darkest  hour  of  his  fate,  when 
the  nearest  and  dearest  had  deserted  him,  and,  forsaking  all  others, 
united  her  destiny  to  his. 

While  the  prince  wasted  his  precious  time,  and  broke  the  spirit  of  his 
adherents  in  unavailing  and  ill-judged  efforts  to  gain  possession  of 
Stirling,  the  Whigs  recovered  from  the  panic  of  Falkirk's  rout.  The 
Duke  of  Cumberland  was  commissioned  to  command  the  army  in  Scot- 
land, and  strong  reinforcements  were  placed  under  his  orders ;  he  had 
led  the  British  forces  with  spirit  and  courage  at  Fontenoy,  and,  in  spite 
of  his  ill-success,  had  won  the  love  and  confidence  of  the  soldiery.  This 
confidence  was  fully  justified  on  the  field  of  Culloden.  Here  Charles 
experienced  a  complete  and  final  defeat,  and  the  hopes  of  his  followers 
were  utterly  crushed. 

Thus  ended  this  memorable  insurrection,  which,  from  a  small  and 
apparently  desperate  commencement,  rose  to  a  dangerous  importance, 
and  at  one  time  almost  threatened  a  revolution  in  the  state.  After  the 
bitterness  of  the  contest  had  been  in  some  measm^  forgotten,  a  milder 
and  more  judicious  admraistration  diminished  the  hatred  of  the  children 
of  the  mountains  to  their  southern  conquerors.  But  it  was  left  for  the 
genius  of  a  Pitt  to  enlist  the  coumge  and  devotion  of  these  plaided 
warriors  in  the  cause  of  Great  Britain.  Since  then,  almost  every 
bloody  struggle  under  the  red  cross  of  St.  George — from  that  before 
the  ramparts  of  Quebec,  to  the  stubborn  fight  of  Waterloo,  bears  wit-  . 
ness  to  how  they  have  fulfilled  the  trust. 

*  #  *  *  *  * 

In  disguise,  a  wretched  fugitive,  wearied  and  disheartened,  Charles 
underwent  every  variety  of  privation  and  suffering  during  the  months 


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CHARLES  EDWARD   STUART.  499 

that  elapsed  before  he  could  effect  his  escape  from  Scotland.  For  his 
final  preservation  he  was  indebted  to  a  simple  Scottish  maiden,  the 
celebrated  Flora  MacDonald.  She  was^  at  the  time  of  our  story,  about 
the  same  age  as  the  unfortunate  Charles ;  she  had  received  a  homely 
education ;  the  learning  of  the  schools^  and  the  accomplishments  of 
courtly  circles,  were  alike  unknown  to  her;  but  her  manners  were 
gentle  and  graceful,  her  principles  pure  and  noble,  and  above  all,  her 
spirit  was  imbued  with  a  high-souled  and  devoted  loyalty,  unshaken  by 
danger  or  despair,  undiminished  in  death  itself.  By  the  courage  and 
energy  of  this  heroic  g^irl  the  life  of  Charles  was  preserved. 

It  was  while  he  was  in  South  Uist,  attended  only  by  O'Neal,  that 
Flora  MacDonald  was  instrumental  in  effecting  the  saifety  of  the  prince. 
She  was,  at  the  time,  on  a  visit  with  her  brother  at  his  house  of  Milton 
in  that  island.  It  so  happened,  that  her  stepfather,  MacDonald  of 
Annadale,  commanded  one  of  the  parties  of  the  militia  engaged  in  the 
pursuit  of  Charles,  in  obedience  to  the  wbhes  of  the  chief  of  his  clan, 
although  he  rather  was  inclined  to  favour  the  Stuart  cause  himself,  and 
on  no  account  would  have  actually  assbted  in  the  capture  of  the  princely 
fugitive;  conduct  and  feeling  such  as  his  were  by  no  means  unusual  in 
those  troublous  times,  0*Neal,  now  Charles's  only  companion,  seems  to 
have  been  the  person  who  suggested  calling  in  Flora  MacDonald's  aid  for 
the  prince'sescape,havingbeen  slightly  acquainted  with  her  in  happier  days. 

O'Neal  met  the  young  lady  by  appointment,  one  night  towards  Uie 
end  of  June,  at  a  cottage  in  BeubeciUa ;  after  a  little  conversation,  he 
told  her  that  he  had  brought  a  friend  to  see  her ;  she  asked  earnestly  if 
it  were  the  prince.  O'Neal's  answer  was  instantly  to  bring  him  in. 
Charles  himself  then  appealed  to  her  loyalty  to  assist  him  to  escape ; 
and  represented  that  her  stepfather's  position  would  enable  her  to  ob- 
tain a  pass  for  the  journey.  She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  not  from  any 
consideration  of  her  own  danger,  but  from  the  fear  of  implicating  her 
kindred.  To  influence  her  decision,  O'Neal  put  before  her  in  the  most 
vivid  light  the  glory  of  saving  her  lawful  prince ;  and  to  allay  the 
scruples  of  feminine  reserve,  which  also  caused  her  to  doubt,  it  is  said 
that  the  light-hearted  Irishman  instantly  tendered  her  his  hand  and 
fortune ;  the  latter,  under  the  circumstances,  was  no  very  brilliant  offer. 
However  that  may  have  been,  it  is  certain  the  lady  did  not  accept  the 
proposaL  The  interview  ended  in  her  undertaking  the  perilous  enterprize. 

The  prince  and  his  faithful  attendant,  now  buoyed  up  with  hope,  re- 
tired once  again  to  their  plaoe  of  concealment,  while  Flora  repaired  to 
Ormaclade,  the  residence  of  Lady  MacDonald,  whom  she  took  into 
her  counsels.  On  her  way  she  was  seiaed  by  a  party  of  militia,  and 
with  her  servant  was  detained  in  custody  till  the  following  morning. 
Her  captors  were  under  the  command  of  her  stepfather,  whose  surprise 
may  well  be  imagineiH  when  he  found  his  soldiers  gave  him  such  a  proof 
of  their  vigilance,  as  his  own  daughter  a  prisoner  in  their  hands.  Of 
course  he  instantly  ordered  her  liberation ;  it  is  scarcely  doubted  that 
he  entered  into  her  plans,  although  the  only  step  he  seems  to  have 
taken  in  the  matter  was  granting  her  a  passport  to  return  to  her  mother's 
house  in  Skye,  including  the  safe  conduct  of  her  man-servant,  and 
Betty  Burke,  a  young  Irbhwoman,  for  her  mother's  service.  Flora's 
plan  was,  that  this  girl's  place  should  be  filled  by  the  prince,  and  when 
she  reached  Ormaclade,  she  speedily  arranged  the  necessary  prepara- 
tions for  the  disguise. 


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500  CHARLES   EDWARD   STUART. 

On  the  27tb,  Lady  Clanranald^  Flora,  and  her  servant^  fought 
Charles  in  his  wretched  hut  by  the  seaside ;  they  found  him  roasting 
a  piece  of  coarse  meat  for  his  supper.  The  sight  moved  them  to  com- 
passion. This  prince,  the  hope  of  a  royal  race,  whose  proud  ancestry 
was  traced  back  in  splendour  to  those  misty  ages  of  the  past,  when  his- 
tory  was  but  a  tale  or  vain  tradition, — now  worn  and  wasted  in  poverty 
and  peril.  Charles  kept  a  cheerful  oountenance,  and  only  remarked 
that  the  lesson  of  adversity  was  of  great  value  to  such  as  himself. 
Lady  MacDonald  was  soon  obliged  to  return  home,  as  a  military  force 
had  arrived  at  her  house.  Flora  and  her  servant  remained  with  the 
prince  and  O'Neal;  this  faithful  Irishman  was  reluctantly  forced  to 
leave  his  lord  the  next  morning,  and  soon  afterwards  fell  into  the  hands 
of  his  pursuers. 

Next  day  Charles  assumed  the  disguise  of  the  Irish  servant  girl,  and 
with  his  companions  made  for  the  shore,  where  a  boat  awaited  them. 
When  they  reached  it,  wet  and  weary,  they  were  detenrad  item  em^ 
barking  by  the  sight  of  several  parties  of  soldiers  passing  in  wfaemet 
along  the  coast  It  was  judged  necessary  to  wait  till  the  shades  of 
night  should  favour  their  escape.  They  then  trusted  themselves  to  the 
little  boat  under  the  guidance  of  one  boatman,  steering  their  course  for 
the  Isle  of  Skye.  The  dangers  that  beset  them  might  well  have  ap- 
palled the  boldest,— a  night  voyage  in  a  little  bark  upon  the  stormy 
seas  of  the  Western  Islands,  with  the  cruisers  of  their  relentless  pur- 
suers swarming  round  on  every  side.  But  the  anxiety  of  the  beroio 
Scottish  maiden  was  for  her  prince,  not  for  herself.  He  seemed  but 
little  affected  by  his  situation,  and  sang  the  wild  songs  that  he  had 
learned  over  the  watch-fires  of  his  brave  highlanders,  to  cheer  the 
drooping  spirits  of  his  companions.  As  the  night  advanced,  the  heavy 
clouds  that  had  hung  gloomily  over  their  departure  burst  into  rain ; 
poor  Flora,  overcome  with  hardship  and  fatigue^  sank  to  sleep  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat ;  the  prince  still  sang  on  to  aid  her  slumbers,  and 
when  she  awoke  she  found  him  watchine  over  her  with  respectful  care. 
Day  dawned  upon  them  but  to  show  the  difficulties  of  their  situation ; 
kmd  was  no  where  in  sight ;  they  knew  not  where  they  were,  but,  trust- 
ing to  a  guiding  Providence,  steered  on  as  nearly  as  they  could  judge,  in 
the  same  course  as  they  had  hitherto  pursued,  and  in  a  little  time  the 
lofty  headlands  of  Skye  gladdened  their  sight.  Makmg  the  best  of 
their  way  towards  the  shore,  they  first  approached  Watemish  on  the 
western  coast,  but  as  they  drew  near,  a  party  of  militia  appeared  in 
readiness  to  receive  them ;  a  boat  lay  on  the  beach,  but,  happily  for 
the  ftigitives  there  were  no  oars.  The  prince's  rowers  on  seeing  the 
danger  instantly  put  about,  and  strained  every  nerve  to  pull  away ;  the 
soldiers  called  upon  them  in  vain  to  come  ashore  and  surrender :  when 
threats  failed,  a  fire  was  opened  upon  them  inm  the  beach,  fortunately 
without  any  effect.  Charles  called  upon  the  boatmen  not  to  mind  the 
villains.  They  answered  **  We  fear  but  for  yon."  ^  Oh,  no  fear  of 
me,*'  he  replied,  gaily.  Flora  MacDonald  was  with  difficulty  persuaded 
by  him  to  lie  down  in  the  boat  to  be  sheltered  from  the  bullets ;  she 
only  consented  on  the  condition  that  he  should  do  so  too,  declaring 
'that  his  life  was  of  far  more  value  than  hers.  They  were  soon  placed 
out  of  the  reach  of  danger  by  the  vigrorous  efforts  of  the  rowers. 

Harassed  and  fatigue^  the  wanderers  put  into  a  little  creek  some  milea 
to  the  northward,  to  seek  for  aid  and  shelter ;  their  hope  was  vain,  the 


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CHARLES  BDWARD   STUART.  501 

people  of  the  neigfabonring  Tillage  dreaded  their  dangerous  pregence, 
and  constrained  them  to  put  to  sea  again.  Finally  they  landed  near  the 
seat  of  Sir  Alexander  MacDonald,  in  the  parish  of  Kilmuir.  This  chief 
was  at  the  time  with  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  but  his  wife,  Lady  Mar- 
garet MacDonald,  was  in  the  neighbourhood ;  she  was  the  daughter  of 
Lord  Eglinton,  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  woman,  in  her  heart 
firmly  attached  to  the  house  of  Stuart.  Lady  Margaret  had  been  in- 
formed of  the  prince's  expected  arrival  by  a  Mrs.  MacDonald,  of  Kirki- 
bost,  and  when  the  fugitives  landed,  Flora,  attended  by  MacF^ichan, 
sought  her  at  the  house,  leaving  Charles  seated  on  his  trunk  on  the 
beach,  still  in  his  female  disguise.  A  militia  officer,  remarkable  for  his 
activity  m  the  pursuit  of  the  unfortunate  prince,  was  at  this  time,  with 
several  others,  enjoying  Lady  Margaret's  hospitality.  Flora  displayed 
admirable  courage  and  self-possession  in  her  manner  cm  this  trying  occa- 
sion, and  successfully  evaded  in  her  answers  the  many  perplexing  ques- 
tions put  to  her ;  such  as,  whence  she  came  ?  where  was  she  going  ?  by 
whom  was  she  attended  ?  Although  Lady  Margaret  was  warned  of  the 
wanderer's  coming,  she  was  much  alarmed  when  she  heard  of  his  actual 
presence  in  her  neighbourhood.  A  man  named  Donald  Roy  MacDonald, 
who  had  fought  and  bled  at  Culloden,  was  taken  into  her  confidence ;  it 
was  arranged  that  this  stout  Jacobite  should  take  up  the  guidance  of  the 
prince  from  Portree  at  the  other  side  of  the  island;  MacDonald  of 
Kmgsburgh,  Lady  Margaret's  chamberlain,  had  directions  to  manage 
the  flight  to  that  place.  The  chamberlain  found  Charles  on  the  shore, 
and  at  once  conducted  him  to  his  house  at  Kingsburgh  on  the  way 
towards  Portree  by  the  public  road.  Flora  soon  pleaded  to  her  hostess 
the  necessity  of  getting  home  to  attend  her  mother's  sick  couch,  who 
was  alone  in  these  troublesome  times ;  after  all  the  due  ceremonies  of 
entreaties  and  refusals  had  been  gone  through  between  Lady  MacDonald 
and  her  guest,  for  the  benefit  of  the  bystanders,  the  young  lady  de- 
parted. Mrs.  MacDonald  of  Kirkibost,  with  her  servants,  joined  Flora 
and  MacEachan  for  the  journey.  The  party  soon  overtook  Kingsburgh 
and  the  prince,  who  had  walked  thus  fkr  along  the  high  road,  but 
had  soon  after  to  turn  off  across  a  wild  and  trackless  country.  Flora 
hurried  past  them  at  a  trot,  that  the  servants  might  not  observe  the 
direction  Charles  was  about  to  take,  but  she  soon  parted  company  with 
her  fellow  travellers,  and  turned  to  rejoin  the  prince.  After  some 
anno3rance  and  anxiety,  Charles  and  his  companions  reached  Kingsburgh 
house  at  eleven  o'clock  that  night,  where  they  were  hospitably  enter- 
tained. By  the  advice  of  the  lady  of  the  house,  the  prince  changed  his 
dress  the  following  morning,  but  lest  the  servants  might  entertain  a  sus- 
picion from  the  strange  alteration,  it  was  effected  in  a  wood  by  the 
roadside.  When  Kingsburgh  had  accomplished  this  object  he  returned 
home.  Charles  and  MacEachan  struck  across  the  mountains  for  Por- 
tree ;  Flora  took  a  different  road  to  the  same  destination. 

At  this  village,  the  only  one  on  the  island,  Donald  Roy  had  mean- 
while made  arrangements  for  carrying  the  prince  to  Raasay,  where  a 
safe  refuge  was  expected,  the  proprietor  being  a  strong  Jacobite,  but 
uncompromised  by  any  active  participation  in  the  disastrous  struggle. 
Donald  Roy,  with  a  few  friends,  met  the  prince  in  the  evening  at  the 
mean  village  inn ;  they  found  him  at  a  coarse  meal,  drinking  out  of  a 
broken  vessel,  used  for  baling  out  a  boat.  Flora  soon  arrived,  but  only 
tobid  a  last  farewell  to  him  whose  life  she  had  so  nobly  preserved ;  she 


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502  CHARLES  EDWARD  STUART. 

had  done  all  that  lay  in  her  power^  and  could  serve  him  no  more. 
Charles  thanked  her  warmly  for  her  generous  aid.  <'  For  all  that  has 
happened,"  added  he  '*  I  hope,  madam,  we  shall  meet  at  St.  James's  yet** 
He  then  saluted  her  tenderly^  and  they  parted  to  meet  no  more.  The 
noble  devotion  of  this  heroic  girl  won  the  admiration  and  esteem  of  all ; 
she  was  soon  arrested  for  the  part  she  had  taken  in  Charles's  escape, 
but  was  treated  with  the  highest  consideration  and  respect.  They  car- 
ried her  to  London  in  a  sort  of  gentle  captivity ;  there  she  met  with 
every  demonstration  of  regard  and  consideration,  which  a  generous 
people  never  fail  to  bestow  on  those  whose  virtues  have  been  conspicuous 
even  in  the  cause  of  their  enemies.  Subsequently  she  married  the  eldest 
son  of  MacDonald  of  Kingsburgh,  and  after  a  somewhat  eventful  life, 
died  at  the  age  of  seventy  years,  in  the  house  where  she  had  effected  the 
safety  of  her  prince.  The  sheet  which  wrapped  him  on  the  night  of  his 
visit  there,  she  had  religiously  preserved  to  be  her  winding-sheet ;  in  it 
she  was  laid  to  rest,  among  her  native  islands^  the  scenes  where  she  had 
won  immortal  honour.  To  this  day  the  name  of  the  noble  Flora  is  often 
heard  in  the  simple  Highland  songs,  whose  echoes  still  linger  in  the 
lonely  glens  of  the  north  ;  and  among  the  rocky  solitudes  of  the  Hebrides, 
as  the  traveller  winds  his  way  by  the  rippling  bum,  the  memories  of 
her  brave  deed  spring  up  beneath  his  feet,  like  the  wild  flowers  on  the 
water's  side. 

A  cousin  of  the  laird  of  the  district,  named  Malcolm  MacLeod,  who 
had  served  in  the  prince's  army,  now  became  his  guide.  After  some 
days  were  passed  on  the  island  in  a  little  hut,  they  went  back  to  Skye, 
braving  the  danger  of  a  storm.  For  some  days  they  wandered  about 
among  the  mountains,  till,  compelled  by  hunger,  they  sought  aid  from 
Malcolm's  sbter,  the  Lady  MacKinnon,  who  received  them  very  kindly 
in  the  absence  of  her  husband.  When  M'Kinnon  returned,  MacLeod 
went  to  meet  him  with  some  anxiety.  <*  What  would  you  do,"  said  he 
to  the  laird,  <*if  the  prince  were  to  come  to  you  for  an  asylum  ?*'  *'  I 
would  give  my  life  to  save  him,"  was  the  generous  answer.  MacKinnon 
furnished  the  prince  with  a  boat.  His  usual  fortune  followed  Charles, 
the  dangers  of  a  heavy  gale  were  increased  by  the  presence  of  two 
cruizers ;  after  much  hardship  and  risk  the  boat  was  at  length  moored  at 
the  southern  end  of  Loch  Nevis.  They  slept  on  the  heather  in  the  open 
air  for  the  first  three  nights ;  on  the  fourth  they  found  the  shelter  of  a 
cavern,  and  then  they  wandered  from  hut  to  hut,  among  the  wretched 
dwellings  the  Highlanders  had  erected  on  the  ruins  of  their  houses,  for 
the  soldiery  had  swept  the  country  with  ruin,  in  their  fierce  reveng^. 
The  MacKinnons  shortly  after  handed  over  the  care  of  the  prince  to 
MacDonald  of  Boisdale;  he  joyfully  undertook  the  dangerous  task, 
appointing  his  cousin  Glenaladale  as  the  guide.  This  was  the  severest 
time  Charles  had  yet  experienced ;  the  English  troops  wer<k  in  possession 
of  the  passes  in  all  directions ;  he  was  obliged  to  hide  repeatedly ;  on  one 
occasion  the  pursuers  passed  close  under  a  rock  where  he  waa  secreted. 
Toil  and  hunger  had  worn  out  his  frame,  but  not  subdued  hb  spirit,  for 
when  he  chanced  to  see  during  his  wanderings  the  people  flying  before 
the  soldiery  who  mercilessly  pursued  them,  keeping  up  a  constant  fire, 
his  companions  could  scarcely  restrain  him  from  drawing  his  sword  and 
rushing  on  the  cruel  assailants. 

At  length  Charles  sought  shelter  with  the  <<  seven  men  of  Glenmoris- 
ton,"  outlaws,  who  had  taken  refuge  in  the  wildest  part  of  the  Highlands, 
and  by  their  knowledge  of  the  country  managed  to  hold  their  ground 


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CHARLES  EDWARD  STUART.  503 

against  the  English.  These  mountaineers  received  him  with  joyful 
respect,  and  spared  no  risk  or  fatigue  to  supply  his  wants.  During 
three  weeks  of  this  wild  life  he  had  won  completely  the  hold  hearts  of 
his  hosts ;  and  when,  in  quieter  days^  the  survivors  of  this  little  hand 
spoke  of  his  sojourn  with  them,  it  was  always  with  the  deepest  feeling, 
and  with  undying  affection  towards  their  prince. 

Charles  next  found  shelter  in  a  cavern  at  Lettemilich,  on  an  almost 
inaccessible  situation  among  the  lofty  rocks,  till,  after  eleven  days,  Glena- 
ladale  announced  to  him  the  stirring  news  that  two  French  vessels  of 
war  had  anchored  in  Lochnanaugh  bay. 

On  the  1 9th  of  September,  the  prince  repaired  to  the  shore,  accom- 
panied by  Lochiel  and  his  brother,  with  many  other  friends  and  followers, 
who  preferred  the  woes  of  exile  to  the  dangers  of  retribution,  which 
threatened  them  at  home ;  a  crowd  of  kinsfolk  of  those  about  to  depart 
assembled  on  the  beach  to  bid  them  farewell.  The  prince  drew  his 
sword,  and  cheered  their  saddened  hearts  for  a  moment  as  he  spoke  of 
future  efforts ;  he  promised  soon  to  be  among  them  again  with  a  power- 
ful army,  to  gain  a  certain  victory.  But  his  tattered  garments  and  ema- 
ciated figure,  with  the  melancholy  sight  of  the  departing  exiles,  soon 
turned  the  gleam  of  hope  that  for  a  moment  lighted  up  the  hearts  of  the 
bystanders  into  the  darkness  of  despair.  With  sobs,  tears,  and  sighs  the 
farewell  was  spoken ;  for  many  among  them  it  was  the  last  earthly  parting. 

After  a  narrow  escape  from  the  English  fleet  on  the  French  shore,  in 
the  friendly  shelter  of  a  fog,  the  prince  passed  in  safety  to  the  French 
coast,  and  landed  at  Roscoff,  near  Morlaix,  in  Brittany,  on  the  10th  of 
October;  the  tedious  and  perilous  passage  lasted  twentv  days.  The 
nobles  of  the  province  received  him  with  a  generous  welcome ;  hospi- 
tably supplying  his  wants,  and  those  of  his  unfortunate  companions. 

The  prince  set  out  for  Paris  after  a  brief  repose ;  his  brother,  the 
Duke  of  York,  advised  of  his  approach,  came  out  to  meet  him,  and  es* 
corted  him  to  the  castle  of  St.  Antoine,  which  had  been  prepared  for  his 
reception  by  the  French  Court  A  few  days  after  his  arrival  in  Paris, 
he  went  in  state  to  Fontainebleau  to  receive  audience  of  the  King  of 
France.  Everywhere  he  was  received  with  interest  and  sympathy ;  his 
romantic  adventures  and  chivalrous  bearing  excited  the  enthusiasm  of 
all.  Charles  soon  saw  that,  despite  all  this  demonstration,  he  had  but 
little  to  hope  from  a  corrupt  Court  and  a  hesitating  and  timid  ministry. 
The  treaty  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  soon  after  signed,  confirmed  his  unfa- 
vourable forebodings ;  its  results  drove  him  from  his  asylum  in  France, 
with  every  humiliating  aggravation  to  which  the  malice  of  his  enemies  and 
the  un worthiness  of  his  friends  oould  subject  him.  Madrid,  Avignon,  and 
Venice  were  successively  tried  in  vain  as  places  of  refuge  for  the  wanderer. 

Suddenly  Charles  disappeared  from  public  notice,  all  traces  of  him 
were  lost ;  he  was  next  heard  of  in  London.  A  number  of  his  parti- 
sans in  that  city  had  made  preparations  for  a  revolt ;  the  promises  of 
support  were  numerous,  the  hopes  of  success  strong.  At  a  large  meet- 
ing, called  to  discuss  some  news  just  received  from  France,  the  prince 
unexpectedly  appeared-  among  the  conspirators.  "  Here  I  am,"  said  he, 
«  ready  to  raise  my  banner ;  g^ve  me  four  thousand  men,  and  I  will  in- 
stantly put  myself  at  their  head."  When  tried  in  this  manner,  his  parti- 
sans failed  in  the  fulfilment  of  their  boasts  and  promises ;  Charles  then 
saw  that  the  case  was  hopeless,  and  returned  to  the  continent. 

Would  that  the  history  of  this  unhappy  man  could  be  closed 
here,  with  the  touching  sentiment  of  Voltaire :  **  Let  the  man  who,  in 


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504  CHARLES  EDWARD  STUART. 

priTate  Btation,  groans  over  bit  light  misfortone,  coDtemplate  those  of 
the  prince  and  his  ancestors."  The  blight  that  withered  his  for- 
tunes cankered  his  mind.  His  after-life  formed,  in  every  respect^  a 
contrast  to  the  patient  endurance,  high  courage,  and  gracious  and  noble 
traits  that  had  characterised  him  in  his  ill-fated  expedition.  Late  in 
life  he  married  the  Princess  Louisa  of  Stolberg  Guldemat  Macerata^ 
in  the  year  1772;  from  mutual  fudts,  this  union  proved  a  source  of 
unhappiness  to  both.  Some  writers  attribute  the  degradation  of  his 
declining  years  to  insanity ;  but  it  appears  to  have  been  solely  the  effect 
of  intoxicating  liquors.  The  Count  of  Albany,  as  he  was  then  usually 
called,  gave  himself  up  to  gross  and  unrestrained  indulgence.  His 
debauchery  at  length  became  dreadful ;  an  old  attendant  said  of  him, 
"  that  no  street-porter  could  equal  him."  Even  during  the  day  he 
rarely  remained  sober,  and  his  usual  allowance  after  dmner  was  six 
bottles  of  strong  wine. 

Disgusted  at  his  besotted  habits,  his  wife  sought  the  society  of  the 
young  Count  Al  fieri ; — the  customs  of  Italy  at  that  time  tolerated,  and 
even  sanctioned,  a  Uaison  of  this  nature,  and  her  degraded  husband 
seems  to  have  regarded  it  with  indifference.  Cardinal  York,  Charles's 
brother,  a  man  of  high  moral  character  and  unspotted  honour,  saw  with 
deep  affliction  this  cUmax  to  the  disgrace  of  his  fallen  family,  and  en- 
deavoured, by  all  the  means  in  his  power  to  repress  the  injurious  scan- 
dal His  efforts  were  vain,  and  his  indignation  futile;  the  unhappy 
marriage  soon  ended  in  a  separation. 

On  the  7th  of  January  1788,  Charles  Edward  sank  under  his  enor- 
mous excesses  ;  gifted  by  nature  with  an  admirable  constitution,  he  bad 
borne  up  against  disease  for  some  time.  On  the  27th  a  paralytic  stroke 
deprived  hnn  of  speech  and  of  the  use  of  oae  side ;  on  the  morning  of 
the  8 1st  he  died.  To  the  last  he  was  watched  over  with  tender  affec- 
tion by  the  only  person  who  latterly  had  the  power  of  exciting  an  emo- 
tion of  interest  in  his  heart — Charlotte,  his  daughter  by  Clementina 
Walkenshaw,  closed  his  eyes  and  soothed  the  pangs  of  death.  By  vain 
acts  of  powerless  sovereignty,  he  had  legritimatised  this  beloved  daugh- 
ter, and  created  her  Duchess  of  Albany. 

In  the  church  of  St.  Peters  at  Rome  there  is  in  the  left  aisle  a  mar- 
ble slab,  which  conspicuously  commands  attention  as  you  enter ;  it  is  cot 
out  so  as  to  resemble  the  doors  of  a  vault,  with  two  figures  on  the  sides, 
and  two  heads  in  medallion  above.  There  is  no  very  striking  merit  in 
these  heads,  although  they  appear  to  have  been  executed  with  the  ar- 
tist's greatest  care,  and  are  most  elaborately  finished ;  but  there  is  some- 
thing exquisitely  touching  in  the  two  figures  below,  the  forms  graceful 
and  delicate,  the  countenances  sad  and  thoughtful  They  stand  with 
their  torches  reversed,  and  their  faces  turned  towards  the  grround,  with 
an  expression  rather  of  deep  melancholy  than  poignant  sorrow.  On  the 
tablet  above,  the  names  of  the  last  three  descendants  of  the  unfortunate 
house  of  Stuart  are  engraved  in  letters  of  gold ;  below  is  a  verse  of 
Scripture,  which  would  have  suited  any  other  tomb  as  well 

Of  two  of  these  history  has  but  little  to  record,  beyond  the  weakness 
and  superstition  of  the  father,  and  the  benevolence  of  the  younger  son. 
But  the  third  has  left  behind  him  an  undying  interest ;  for  a  brief  sea- 
son he  seemed  destined  to  redeem  the  errors  and  brighten  the  annals  of 
his  race.  Then  came  defeat  and  shame,  and  the  name  of  the  Stuarts 
was  blotted  out  for  ever  from  the  page  of  living  history. 


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505 
REPUBLICAN  CLUBS  IN  PARIS  {April  1848). 

BY  THB   FLANBUB  IN  PABI8. 

Much  as  the  meaning  orisinallv  attached  in  France  to  the  word 
''club**  may  have  been  amootned  down  and  gilded  orer  by  the  sense, 
very  nearly  tantamount  to  its  real  English  signification,  bestowed 
upon  it  by  the  Parisian  gants  jaunts,  the  ^Ugants,  the  members  of  the 
Jockey  Club»  the  soUdisant  admirers  and  would-be  imitators  of  Eng- 
lish fashions  and  English  comfort,  the  fashionable  Anglo-maniacs,  in 
fEict,  of  a  time  gone  by,  and  already  a  matter  of  remote  history,  al- 
though only  of  the  last  few  years,  the  last  few  months,  the  last  few 
weel^  even,  so  great  is  the  gulf  that  already  sunders  Parisian  man- 
ners as  they  were  from  Parisian  manners  as  they  are ;  much  as  the 
term  may  have  been  drilled,  and  fashioned,  and  decked  out  in^  what 
they  thought  a  proper,  gentlemanly,  exclusive,  well-bred  sense,  it  has 
no  less  returned  all  at  once  to  one  of  terrible  memory.  The  same  re- 
volution that  overthrew  a  throne,  has  at  the  same  time  upset  an  Anglo- 
dsm ;  and  in  this  remark  the  bathos  may  not  be  so  great  as  may  be 
imi^ined.  In  this  time  of  pell-mell  frensy,  when  newly  revolution- 
ized French  beads  seem  to  have  no  thought  but  that  of  subverting 
power,  and  no  purpose  to  use  the  words  of  the  Gtoman  poet  Orabbe— 
but  *'  to  ruin,  and  with  the  ruins,  at  beet  build  up  a  ruin ;"  when  each 
party  of  men  seems  to  have  adopted  as  the  inscriptioQ  of  their  banner 
ot  liberty>  "  All  for  our  will  1  down  with  that  of  every  body  else !  " 
when,  in  the  name  of  the  people,  of  the  sovereign  people,  whose  voice, 
they  tell  you,  is  the  ''  voice  ot  God  !  "  eadi  faction,  each  expression  of 
opinion,  nay,  each  individual  "  dreamer  of  dreams,"  and  newly  arisen 
concocter  of  Utopian  theories,  each  supporter  of  what  are  called  Com- 
munist and  Socialist  doctrines,  for  the  wi^isant  welfire  of  humanity, 
and  the  real  destruction  of  every  old  social  tie,  assert  the  right  of 
alone  directing  the  welfare  and  the  rule  of  France, — when  already  the 
evident  tendency  of  those  who  call  themselves  the  only  true  republi- 
cans, is  to  give  their  own  meaning,  in  their  new  republican  diction- 
ary, to  the  three  great  rallying  watch-words  of  the  day,  and  explain 
that ''  Fraternity  "  means  ''  the  bitterest  hatred  to  all  who  possess  not 
the  same  opinions ;"  "  EgaUti,"  *'  we  up  above»  and  all  others  down 
below ;"  and  *'  Uberti"  ''  liberty  of  thinking,  speaking,  doing,  acting, 
crushing,  destroying  as  it  pleaseth  us,  but  the  most  despotic  suppres- 
sion of  all  ideas,  things,  and  men,  that  we  acknowledge  not ;"  when 
violent  demonstration,  demand,  exaction,  are  growing  day  by  day  more 
clearly  the  avowed  principles  of  '^  whole  hog"  republicans,  and  sup- 
port of  those  principles  "  by  force  if  necessary,"  their  declared  reli- 
gion, in  such  times,  shew  the  mere  change  in  the  meaning  of  a  word 
may  have  a  more  awfiil  prophetic  signification  than  would  appear  at 
first  sight.  As  it  is,  the  late  meaning  of  the  word  *'  hides  its  dimi- 
nished head,"  ashamed  and  shrinking  back  from  the  restored  one,  that 
flaunts  the  red  Phrygian  cap  of  liberty  on  its  head,  seems  already  in- 
clined to  assume  the  more  truly  French  and  distinguishing  term  of 
"  cercle,"  and  very  shortly  the  word  *'  club"  will  wear  in  franco  the 
sense  alone  of  a  republican  political  meeting  for  the  dictation  of  the 


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506  THE   REPUBLICAN   CLUBS 

will  of  the  majority,— what  do  1  say  ?— of  the  more  violent  minority 
to  the  whole  country. 

It  was  at  the  commencement  of  the  French  Revolntion  of  the  last 
century,  that  the  word  was  first  imported  into  France  hy  the  Anglo- 
mania party  of  the  day ;  the  party  that,  headed  by  a  prince  of  the 
blood,  who,  thinking  to  forward  his  own  purposes  of  ambition,  reck- 
lessly offered  the  nrst  hand  to  open  the  sluices  to  an  inundation  that 
soon  swept  himself  away  in  a  torrent  of  blood,  first  commenced  its 
opposition  to  the  monarchic  principle.  The  party  was  carried  away  and 
wrecked  upon  the  angry  waters,  but  the  name  of  the  vessel  in  which 
they  had  embarked  for  the  traffic  of  their  political  opinions  and  their 
ambitious  views  still  floated  on  the  stormy  sea,  and  was  seized  upon 
by  the  pirate  wreckers  to  bear  themselves  forward  on  their  own  voy- 
age of  destruction  and  bloodshed.  The  word  '*  club"  became  one,  the 
memory  of  which  may  still  cause  many  a  heart  in  France  to  thrill 
with  horror ;  and  now,  the  veil  thrown  over  it  by  those  who  fancied 
they  w|re  decorating  it  with  its  true  sense  of  ''  exclusive  association 
for  social  purposes,  principally  of  relaxation  and  amusement  in  com- 
mon," has  been  torn  away  on  a  sudden.  There  are  still  many  who 
cannot  look  upon  it  without  fimcying  they  gaze  upon  a  hideous 
spectre,  and  who  ask  themselves,  with  a  shudder,  what  may  hereafter 
be  the  fate  of  republican  France,  when  the  spectre  shall  grow  to 
gigantic  proportions,  and  shall  stretch  out  its  hundred  hands  to  sign 
its  bold  letters,  the  hundred  declarations  of  its  violent  will,  or  perhaps 
to  seize,  crush,  destroy  all  that  falls  within  its  powerful  grasp. 

Upon  the  proclamation  of  that  provisional  French  republic  of  which 
the  violence  of  a  usurping  and  despotic  minority  in  Paris  has  declared 
the  permanence,  ^*  whatever  may  betide,"  thus  placing  the  appeal  to 
the  sense  of  the  nation  in  the  light  of  a  mere  mockery,  when  '*  liberty 
de  reunion  politique"  was  hail^  by  republicans  as  opening  an  arena 
for  all  licence,  and  a  field  for  every  frantic  ambition,  the  dubs  began 
to  spring  out  of  the  blood-manurea  soil  like  heads  of  asparagus, — to- 
day, one  or  two ;  to-morrow,  twenty ;  and  then,  under  the  brain- 
heating  sun  of  French  republicanism,  a  countless  host.  And  now 
they  wax  the  slender  stems,  except  such  as  have  already  died  of 
weakness,  or  fsJlen  to  the  ^ound  nrom  their  own  too  earUf  prurient 
rottenness ;  and  they  promise,  the  thriving  plants,  to  grow  up  into 
tall  trunks  and  bis  trees,  and  they  spread  themselves  abroad,  vaunt- 
ing that  they  shaU  stretch  forth  branches  overshadowing  the  whole 
land  like  mighty  oaks, — mayhap  more  like  deadljr  upas  trees,— and 
each  stem-  strives  to  be  the  mightiest  in  the  political  forest,  and  to 
overtop  the  others. 

In  the  commencement  these  clubs  wore  the  physiognomy  of  a  co- 
medy, a  child's  play ;  an  attempt  to  set  up  a  wretched  parody  of  the 
fearful  earnest  of  '91.  Men  had  ful  the  air  of  children  playing  at 
soldiers.  They  played  at  ^^dubbists,"  and  they  played  their  part 
more  or  less  with  the  conviction  of  the  reality  of  their  game ;  more  or 
less  with  solemnity,  more  or  less  well.  The  children  m  this  political 
play  did  not  seem  to  know,  at  first,  that  they  had  really  got  sharp- 
edged  tools  in  their  own  hands;  they  flourished  them  about  like 
<« make-believe"  weapons;  but  lately  they  have  found  out,  in  their 
flourishing,  that  they  have  given  a  rent  or  two  here,  a  gash  or  two 
there,  and  that  when  their  blades  are  flourished  in  the  face  of  their 
grown-up  parents,  the  members  of  the  Provisional  Gh)vemment,— 


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OP  PARIS.  507 

who,  by  the  way,  have  themselres  continually  the  air  of  playing  at 
''  make-believe "  with  a  people's  destinies,  and  only  acting  an  un- 
real drama  in  the  face  of  Europe,  so  recklessly  do  some  of  them  play 
their  eame, — these  ushers,  in  their  republican  school-room,  only 
blinked  their  eyes,  positively  shut  them  sometimes  to  what  they  were 
doing,  and  promised  them  that,  if  they  would  only  not  flare  their  wea- 
pons about  so,  they  should  hare  all  the  poisoned  sugar-plums  they 
would  like  to  swallow  themselves,  or  force  oown  their  fellows'  throats  ; 
and,  like  spoiled  children  who  have  learnt  their  power  by  over-in- 
dulgence, they  may  soon  declare  themselves  grown-up  men,  turn  their 
ushers  adrift,  at  least  those  they  think  ^'  too  strict"  in  their  restraint* 
and  run  loose  in  one  great  sweeping  riot  of  revolutionary  holiday.  They 
are  trying  their  hand  at  it  already,  and  not  only  at  home,  if  all  tales 
be  true ;  for,  like  Venice,  there  are  many,  it  is  said,  which  have  not 
only  their  open  senate,  but  their  more  secret  Council  of  Ten,  and  their 
yet  more  mysterious  and  all-po^^rful  Council  of  Three,  in  all  their 
roreign  underhand  dealinss.  But  the  Fldneur,  with  his  necessary 
character  for  superficial  observation,  has  nothing  to  do  with  hidden 
movements  and  concealed  workings  in  the  body ;  his  task  is  only  to 
iMiint  the  physiognomy  as  he  sees  it,  and,  at  most,  judge  the  character 
b^  the  visible  expression  flitting  over  the  face ;  and  to  this  task  he 
will  betake  himself. 

Even  in  this  proceeding,  however,  he  must  claim  indulgence.  The 
name  of  the  clubs  in  Paris  is  already  le^on.  One  and  all  consider 
themselves  each  as  important  as  its  neighbour.  He  finds  himself 
turned  adrift  in  a  great  gallery  of  portraits,  and  how  make  copies  of 
them  all  ?  In  truth,  it  would  prove,  could  he  even  accomplish  the 
task,  a  *^  weary  show."     He  can  do  no  more  than  turn  himself  round, 

Eitch  upon  this  or  that  physiognomy  at  random,  sketch  it  off  as  best 
e  may  be  able,  and  leave  the  others  unattempted.  As  may  be  well 
supposed,  also,  there  is  a  certain  family  likeness  in  all  the  pictures  of 
the  gallery,  since  they  all  pourtray  the  several  members  of  one  great 
family,  bom  of  the  same  parent,  in  racing  language,  ^'  by  Republic 
out  of  Revolution."  There  would  be,  consequently,  a  considerable 
monotony  in  any  long  series  of  '^ copies  from  originals!"  True! 
there  are  all  the  varieties  of  expression  which  must  be  found  in  the 
various  members  of  a  fsunily  according  to  their  several  characters. 
Some  are  frowning,  some  are  calm ;  some  have  a  passionate  knit  about 
the  brow,  some  a  sneer  about  the  upper  lip,  some  have  an  air  of  de« 
spairing  melancholy,  that  looks  at  all  ''on  the  black  side,"  some  a 
triumphant  reckless  look  of  optimism,  some  look  steadily  straight  before 
them,  like  men  looking  into  the  distance,  some  squint  atrociously,  so 
distorted  are  visual  organs,  so  distractedly  askew  do  they  take  their 
view  of  things  in  general.  But  the  family  likeness  is  there  after  all ; 
almost  all  have  an  impatient  "  kicking-up-a-row"  look  about  them  ; 
and  the  outward  attire  of  each  individual  portrait  is  also  very  similar, 
taking  into  account  a  greater  or  lesser  richness  of  stuff  in  the  dress. 
There  is  nothing  to  be  done,  consequently,  but  to  pick  out  a  physio- 
gnomy or  two  by  chance. 

The  Fldneur  turns  himself  round,  then,  like  a  stufifed  conjurer 
spinning  about  on  a  child's  lottery-tray.  What  is  the  portrait  before 
which  he  finds  himself  placed  ? 

The  frame  has  already  served  in  other  times  to  far  other  and  more 
harmouious  purposes.     It  consists  of  the  "  Salle  des  Concerts"  of  the 


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508  THE  REPUBLICAN   CLUBS 

^  Conierratorio  de  Musiaae."  The  arts^  however,  must  wholly  give 
waj»  as  futile  matters,  before  the  beck  of  repabUcan  polities ;  &ej 
mast  be  even  happy  that  they  are  not  looked  upon  as  aristocrates,  and 
as  sacby  suspects.  They  have  fled,  for  the  time,  from  their  old  haonts, 
and  it*8  a  wonder  that  nrigfatened  harmony  should  not  fly  away  for  ever 
from  the  spot  where  discord  raises  its  voice  so  loud.  The  frame  of  the 
picture  is  a  dingy  one :  four  small  passase-lamps  alone  make  '*  dark- 
ness visible"  in  the  amphitheatre;  ana  they  do  well,  for,  where  the 
eye  has  been  accustomed  to  see  grouped  around  the  elegance  of  all 
that  Paris  contains  of  most  distinguished  in  musical  amateurs,— grace, 
richness,  colour — ^it  contracts  spasmodically  at  the  dim  vision  of  rusty 
coats  and  dingy  blouses,  enlivened  at  most  with  the  red  epaulettes  of 
the  coarse  uniforms  of  the  National  Guards,  with  which  the  wdl- 
known  amphitheatre, — ^boxes,  stalls,  pit,  every  part,  in  fact,— is  closely 
packed,  as  with  stale  herrings  in  a  once  clean  cask.  But  these  are 
changes  the  eye  must  ^  used  to  in  these  republican  days,  and  not 
give  itself  fastidious  airs  of  exclusive  nicety;  for  if  it  mend  not  its 
manners  in  this  respect,  it  may  often  find  itself  ill  treated :  and  all  ibe 
other  organs  of  sense,  hj  the  way,  would  do  well  to  follow  its  examjde. 
In  the  stage  upon  which,  in  other  times,  sat  in  grave  semicircle  that 
admirable  orchestral  band  so  renowned  in  modem  musical  annals  for 
its  precision  of  harmony,  there  is  another  band  now,— a  band  thai 
hopes  to  be  as  renowned  in  the  political  anuals  of  France  for  the  force 
•f  Its  disharmony,  for  its  powers  of  subversion  and  destruction.  The 
picture  represents  a  meeting  of  a  club  for  the  propagation  of  commn* 
nist  doctrines :  its  president  is  a  famous  leader  of  section,  formerly 
imprisoned  for  *'  high  misdemeanours,"  and  now,  consequently,  a  hero> 
however  great  his  real  incapacity,  a  demi-god,  however  doubtful  his 
character.    See  !  he  is  sitting,  with  his  pde  foce,  his  pale  beard,  his 

ele  cropped  hair,  his  pale  eyes,  and  his  pale  expression  of  discontent, 
hind  an  elevated  table  on  the  stage — the  **  leader  of  the  band  :"  on 
either  side  of  him,  also,  seated  at  the  table,  are  his  vice-presidents  and 
secretaries — his  first  fiddlers :  standing  around  and  behind  are  the  other 
members  of  his  orchestra,  his  accolytes  and  supporters,  and  many  of 
those  desirous  of  ikying  solos,  and  addressing  the  assembly.  Pour 
dreary-looking  candles  throw  a  dim  dirty  li^t  upon  this  mass  of 
beards  and  frowning  patriotic  faces,  and  give  a  conspirator-like  look  to 
their  groupings,  that,  probably,  is  by  no  means  uncongenial  to  the  pre- 
sident. A  liule  below,  is  fnmt  of  the  stage,  is  a  rostrum,  soi^dismnt 
Romiin  in  its  foshioning,  to  which  steps  ascend  on  either  side.  This 
is  the  tribune  de  I'orateur.  A  grave-faced  man  has  sot  possession  of 
it,  and  he  is  dedaiming  upon  the  measures  to  be  laid  before  the  go- 
vernment, as  the  expression  of  the  hkb  and  mighty  will  of  the  dub, 
for  the  rem«dy  of  the  misery  and  wiffers  of  the  present  financiid 
crisis :  the  bank  is  to  be  taken  from  the  bands  of  the  privileged  mono- 
polisers virho  possosfl  it,  and  given  to  the  country  for  its  direction :  this 
18  tobeseisea  and  oonfiscatc» ;  that  to  be  taken  from  capitalists,^  those 
spdiatovs  of  the  nation,"  for  the  peofde's  benefit ;  t'other  to  be  claimed 
from  aristocratic  property-holders,  as  a  people's  right.  How  he  goes 
on  1  But  the  audience  is  not  yet  sufficiently  "  Mlvanoed,"*— as  the 
proposers  of  such  sweeping  applications  to  their  doctrines  would  call 
It, — ^to  understand  the  complicated  harmonies  of  a  music  that  seems 
80  full  of  discords.  What  a  tremendous  nproar  greets  the  orator  at 
almost  every  word !     Denegatioas,  expo6tnlations»  protestatiOBs^  inter- 


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OP  PARIS.  509 

DelladoBS — various,  long,  loud,  and  stormy — ^burst  forth  from  the 
boxes,  and  even  the  more  exclusive  and  partizan-packed,  claqueur^ 
provided,  pit.  Sometimes  they  come,  like  one  sudden  peal  of  unsus- 
pected thunder,  a  great  crash  ;  sometimes  in  partial  discbarges,  like  a 
desultory  fire  from  a  besieging  party ;  sometimes  in  a  solitary  yell 
from  some  bolder  individual ;  and  then,  again,  they  rise  crescesdo,  like 
a  peal  of  thunder,  that  seems  as  it  would  never  cease.  In  the  midst 
of  the  general  tumult,  minor  quarrels  and  disputes  arise,  in  separate 
groups,  from  unknown  neighbours,  who  are  not  of  the  same  mind,  and 
people  jump  up  from  their  seats  with  gestures  as  were  they  about  to 
Dutt  their  heads  together  like  fighting  rams,  and  every  moment  the 
crash  of  thick  skulls  in  such  collision  is  to  be  expected,  and  everybody 
cries  '*  a  la  porte !"  into  the  face  of  everybody  else,  until  you  are  fully 
persuaded  that  everybody  intends  to  turn  everybody  out  of  the  salle, 
and  thus  clear  it  of  everybody,  upon  the  devouring  principle  of  the 
Kilkenny  oifts,  but  without  leaving  as  mnch  as  a  tail  behind ;  and  in 
the  midst  of  this  pandemonium-like  eonftision,  look !  there  is  one 
little,  broad-shouldered,  young  fellow,  with  a  big  black  mane  and  fiery 
eyes,  who  is  always  springing  up  and  ^tting  down,  as  if  his  seat  were 
of  heated  iron,  and  who  roars  like  a  young  lion,  shaking  his  fist  at  the 
whole  assemby,  without  exception :  and  hark  !  there  is  another,  with 
a  brow  like  a  hyena,  who  is  jumping  up  as  incessantly,  and.8ay8  no- 
thing but  "  Je  demande  la  parole ! '  Nor  is  the  president  behind 
hana  in  the  uproar ;  he  bangs  the  table  without  a  moment's  pause, 
and  his  fundamental  agitation  is  as  great  as  that  of  the  lion,  to  whose 
roar  his  bellow  responds  in  unceasing  echo.  There  is  one  fiery  bladk 
secretary,  also,  in  a  white  paletot,  who  is  constantly  jumping  off  the 
sta^e  into  the  stalls  and  pit,  and  flourishing  about  like  a  distracted 
policeman,  determined  upon  arresting  all  the  world,  and  making  one 
great  ttatioo-heuse  of  all  society,  la  such  a  scene  to  be  the  type  of 
KepnbHcan  France  ?  One  would  almost  snppose  so,  since  its  Parisian 
club69<^aiid  this  is  one  of  the  most  influential, — ^lodc  upon  themselves 
as  the  arbiters  of  its  destiny. 

But  now  the  tumult  has  dwindled  to  a  comparative  calm,  and  the' 
hce  of  the  picture  is  somewhat  changed.  The  orator  who  has  got 
into  the  rostmm  is  already  known  to  the  chief  part  of  the  assembly  for 
the  poetical  vigooi  of  his  energetic  language :  ko  is  in  the  dress  of  an 
artisan,  and  he  has  a  fine  bold  brow  and  a  keen  eye.  He  is  listened 
to  with  greater  patienee,  for,  however  startling  his  doctrines,  however 
bordering  on  blasphemy  his  bold  allusions,  iMwevor  void  of  any  r^ 
argument  or  demonstration  his  grand  periods,  he  has  the  gift  of  that 
▼porous  declamation,  the  facility  of  those  clap-trap  sentiments,  that 
are  sure  to  meet  with  applause  amoi^  the  theatrically-minded  French, 
who  are  always  ready  to  applaud  "  phrase-middng,''  however  "  full  of 
sewad  and  fury,  signifying  notiiing."  He  is  left  tolerably  vndisturfoed, 
allhou^  "  hyeua-face"  is  still  always  getting  up  with  the  words,  ^  Je 
demande  la  parole  V'  or  rather,  he  is  met  with  tremendous  applause, 
when,  in  the  midst  of  much  startling  poetrv  of  language,  he  tells  the 
dub  that  Christ  was  a  oommunist  and  revokUionaire,  Imw  was  it  when 
He  said,  *'  Render  unto  Cesar  the  things  that  are  Ctesai's,'^  and  that 
in  this  day  of  privileges  and  monopdies.  He  would  have  been  arrested 
for  working  miracles,  becante  he  was  '*  practising  without  a  patent." 
'^  Immense  roars  of  applause.'^  A  little  blasphemy  seasons  well  a  dish 
of  French  declamation. 


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510  THE  REPUBLICAN   CLUBS 

Bat  the  Fldneur  has  not  space  upon  his  canvas  to  paint  eyerv  ac- 
cessory of  the  picture.  Orator  succeeds  orator^  and  in  the  midst  of 
rising  or  sinking  riot  and  confusion,  many  are  put  down.  A  very 
flourishing  gentleman,  in  the  dress  of  a  Oarde  National — he  is  evi- 
dently the  low-comedy  actor  on  this  stage — ^put  down !  A  poor  weak 
man,  with  a  strong  foreign  accent,  put  down  !  One  man,  who  talks  a 
little  reason  amidst  all  the  hurly-burly  of  communist  extravagance,  of 
course  put  down !     Hyena-face,  with  his  incessant  "  Je  demande  la 

Sarole !"  is  at  last  forced  up  into  the  rostrum,  and  when  he  gets  there, 
eclares  he  has  nothing  to  say — ^he  puts  himself  down.  Amidst  such 
scenes  of  constant  turmoil,  the  deliberations  of  the  assembly  are  con- 
tinued. It  is  declared,  in  spite  of  violent  protestation  from  the  public, 
that  the  select  members  of  the  club  are  alone  to  vote,  and  of  course 
they  carry  their  high  measure,  which  is  to  dictate  their  will  to  the 
temporary  rulers  of  the  land,  all  their  own  way.  They  think  to  hold 
the  destinies  of  France  in  their  hand.  Poor  France !  were  it  true, — 
should  it  ever  prove  true,-— and  who  can  tell  how  soon  it  prove  not 
true? 

Spin  round  again.  Flaneur  !  His  fuce  turns  to  the  Salle  Valen- 
tino, in  the  Rue  St.  Honore.  Within  that  glittering  popular  ball- 
room, with  its  painted  ceilings  and  its  gilded  columns,  its  wreathes  of 
roses,  now  intermixed  with  tricolor  banners,  and  its  joyous  souvenirs 
of  frantic  excitement,  full  of  visions  of  masks  and  scampering  bands  of 
variegated  dancers,  is  again  a  crowd,  but  a  crowd  that  dances  on  the 
ruins  of  society,  to  the  music  of  threats  and  denunciations,  with  a 
bonnet  rouge  as  its  sole  costume.  The  estrade  of  the  president  and  his 
accolytes,  and  the  orator's  tribune,  are  again  upon  the  spot,  where  an 
orchestra  lead  on  the  dance, — and  a  pretty  dance  they  would  lead  on, 
I  trow.  How  striking  is  the  contrast  of  the  dark  sweltering  crowd  to 
the  bright  painting  and  gildinff  around  I  The  masks,  however,  are 
almost  as  various  as  at  a  carnival  ball.  Coats,  blouses,  cloaks,  bonnets, 
gloved  hands  and  gloveless,  artizans  and  authors,  men  old  and  young, 
women  and  children,  mingle  pell-mell.  The  assembly  is  worthy  of 
the  name  that  calls  it  together :  its  convokers  belong  to  the  newly 
established  violent  "  Populaire  "  newspaper.  You  may  read  its  prin- 
ciples in  the  speeches  of  the  orators ;  for  those  who  are  not  of  their 
mmd  are  of  course  quickly  put  down.  Thev  are  advocates  for  pro- 
pagandism ;  the  feelings  of  the  country  must  oe  travailU  (^'  tortured," 
via.  a  French  dictionary)  to  a  repulican  sense,  they  say ;  the  most 
arbitrary  and  despotic  measures  must  be  adopted  for  tnat  purpose. 
All  hall,  then,  to  the  reign  of  Uberty  /  The  picture,  on  account  of  its 
brilliant  accessories,  is  a  strange  and  novel  one:  but  the  doctrines 
grow  stale  upon  the  palled  ear :  they  are  to  be  heard  in  almost  every 
other  club,  at  every  alfresco  meeting  at  street  comers :  the  picture  is 
''  too  much  like  the  former."  There  is  the  same  shouting,  clamouring, 
protesting ;  the  same  tuonult  and  disorder.  The  family  likeness  is  too 
strong  to  render  this  portrait  of  any  peculiar  interest  after  the  other. 

Round  again  I  The  Flaneur,  however,  has  not  got  far  in  his  pre- 
sent turn.  .  Close  by  is  the  Church  of  the  Assumption.  Attachea  to 
the  church  is  an  old  chapel.  A  dim  light  from  its  windows  invites  the 
passer  b^.  A  dusky  troop  is  mounting  its  steps  in  a  desultory  man- 
ner. W  ithin,  what  a  contrast  do  the  accessories  exhibit  to  those  of 
the  last  picture !  Nothing  can  be  more  gloomy  than  the  aspect  of  the 
damp,  dark,  dismantled  chapel.     A  few  leiint  lamps  give  only  a  fune- 


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OP   PARIS.  511 

real  air  to  the  assembly.  Beneath  the  semicircalar  vault,  at  the  far- 
ther end,  is  a  scaffolding  covered  with  black  cloth :  it  occupies  the 
spot  where  once  stood  the  altar  of  the  Lord.  It  looks  like  a  scaffold 
prepared  for  the  execution  of  a  criminal ;  and,  in  truth,  it  is  prepared 
for  the  execution  ''  unto  death"  of  all  the  social  institutions  of  the 
country.  It  stands  upon  the  ground  of  the  Most  Holy  ;  and,  in  trnth, 
those  who  have  placed  themselves  aloft  upon  it,  are  the  new  divinities 
of  republican  France.  So  tells  us,  at  least,  a  pale,  dark,  lanky-haired, 
squinting  youth,  who  occupies,  as  orator,  the  lower  black-behung 
''  tribune,"  beneath  the  higher  one,  on  which  sit  president,  vice-presi- 
dents, and  secretaries.  The  distracted  youth  has  energy,  and  even 
eloquence  enough:  but  what  does  he  tell  his  hearers?  That  the 
republic  is  based  upon  ''  divine  right,"  since  it  has  been  the  work  of 
Providence,  and  that,  strong  in  this  '*  right  divine,"  the  republican 
minority  must  take  up  arms  against  the  constituent  assembly,  should 
it  declare  itself  against  the  republican  principle.  A  grey-haired  old 
gentlemen  takes  his  place,  and,  to  the  surprise  of  many,  his  grey- 
haired  wits  g9  still  farther  than  the  inexperienced  head  of  the  youth. 
He  tells  his  audience  that  the  republic,  "  one  and  indivisible,  is  more 
than  indivisible — ^is  God  !"  With  such  rhapsody  of  republicanism 
ringing  in  the  ears,  how  can  we  doubt  that  there,  upon  that  spot,  we 
have  the  new  divinities  of  a  new  religion  before  our  eyes  ?  that  they, 
and  they  alone,  have  justly  erected  their  altar  upon  the  once  sanctified 
spot? 

Strange  anomaly !  A  circular  declares  that  this  club  is  founded  by 
the  leadmg  men  of  a  paper  called  the  '*  Democratic  Paciiique  ;"  but 
nothing,  of  a  surety,  appears  less  pacific  than  the  principles  of  these 
divine  gentlemen.  *'  To  arms !  to  arms !  unless  our  will  is  that  of 
all !"  is  the  cry.  Look  at  the  president  also !  Does  he  expect  him- 
self to  be  regarded  as  a  type  of  his  pacific  democracy  ?  With  what 
frantic  ardour  does  he  scratch  back  his  scanty  fair  hair  from  his  high 
half-bald  forehead,  that  he  evidently  considers  sublime !  With  what 
ferocity  does  he  roll  his  little  light  eyes !  How  awfully,  in  his  inces- 
sant bawlings,  does  his  little  round  mouth  open  in  the  midst  of  that 
Jove-like  profusion  of  fair  beard !  How  despotically  does  he  brow- 
beat every  orator  who  is  not  of  his  opinion,  or  of  the  opinion  of  his 
party  I  With  what  stunning  force  does  he  bang  his  hammer  on  his 
presidential  table !  He  must  indeed  be  the  superior  divinity,  for  it  is 
a  miracle  that  the  table  is  not  shattered  beneath  his  blows !  With 
what  a  stentorian  voice  does  he  bellow,  at  the  beginning  and  at  the 
end  of  the  proceedings,  ''  Vive  la  Republique !"  Those  who  find  not 
such  exhibitions  of  ^'Liberty,  £quaiity,  and  Fraternity,"  to  their 
taste,  will  be  glad  to  turn  their  eyes  away  from  the  dusky  group  of 
these  soi'disant  ''  pacifies,"  and  from  the  dark  picture  of  the  gloomy 
dismantled  chapel  with  its  riotous  crowd. 

Another  picture  comes  before  the  eyes  of  the  Fldneur,  Through 
the  courts  of  the  palace,  which  has  so  long  borne  the  misnomer  of 
*'  royal,"  and  has  been  now  confiscated  and  proclaimed  '*  national," 
hurry  again  dark  groups  of  men.  They  are  of  all  classes,  and  the 
blouse  mingles  in  their  masses  with  the  coat.  They  hurry  through 
marble  halls,  and  up  vast  marble  staircases,  like  a  fresh  mob  taking  a 
royal  palace  by  storm  :  throuuh  gilded  anti-rooms  and  painted  apart- 
ments they  hurry  on.  The  picture  represents  a  vast  room,  decorated 
with  white  and  gold :  boards  have  been  knocked  up  over  each  painted 

VOL.   XXIII.  p  p 


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512  THE  REPUBLICAN   CI^UBS 

representation  of  royalty.  The  crowd  is  intense,  and  noisy  again,  in- 
the  once  quiet>  long  deserted  palace.  Presidents,  secretaries,  and 
supporters  throne  it  grandly  at  the  upper  end.  The  throng  is  so  great, 
that  the  picture  is  a  confused  one :  it  is  almost  impossible  to  &tin- 
gnish  its  accessories  in  that  *'  darkness  visible,"  which  seems  to  be  a 
symbolical  requisite  of  most  of  those  dubs.  But  the  ear  can  hear,  and 
tne  heart  may  feel  more  or  less  bitterly,  if  the  eye  cannot  see.  The 
iliost  vague  and  frantic  Utopian  fancies  of  the  communist  doctrines  of 
the  day,  the  partage  gh^rtd  of  property,  the  dissolution  of  the  nation 
into  one  vast  loving  ramily,«-I  know  not  other  theories  besides,— ^ue 
not  sufficient  here ;  although,  sooth  to  say,  they  still  meet  with  mur- 
muring opposition  from  a  minority.  It  is  not  enough  that  orators  de- 
clare their  doctrines  must  be  adopted  by  the  assembly  which  is  to 
found  the  basis  of  a  new  constitution.  Another  follower  of  the  same 
creed  declares,  that  it  is  urgent  to  subvert  all  the  old  worn-out  doc- 
trines of  retrograde  philosophies  and  religions ;  that  Christianity  was 
''  all  very  well '  for  moyenage  use,  but  that  it  is  now  far  en  arriire, 
and  unfit  for  the  progress  of  mankind.  In  vain  an  aced  priest,  repub* 
lican  as  he  may  be  in  his  social  creed,  uses  all  his  old  energies  to  de» 
fend  his  religion.  A  minority  of  voices  alone  supports  him :  the  cla- 
mour, the  applause,  are  on  the  side  of  the  would-be  reformer  of 
Divine  revelation,  and  the  predominant  "  Yes,  yes,"  declares  that 
Christianity  ought  to  be  flung  aside  like  a  garment  out  of  fashion,  and 
no  longer  wearable  in  such  times.  A  former  conspirator  is  again  the 
president  of  this  assembl]^ :  he  is,  of  course,  a  hero  now-a-days ;  but 
he  appears  to  be  no  genius  for  all  that.  Let  us  turn  away  our  eyes 
from  the  picture  presented  by  the  silded  halls  of  the  ex-Palais  Royal. 
There  is  a  vast  profusion  of  others  that  may  be  lighted  upon  at 
random.  What,  then,  is  thi^  to  which  the  eye  next  rambles  ?  At  the 
further  end  of  that  quarter  of  Paris  beyond  the  Seine  which  belongs 
more  especially  to  the  University,  stands  the  vast  old  building  of  the 
Sorbonne— the  seat  of  former  ecxlesiastieal  conclave^,  the  theological 
schools  of  the  present  University.  Of  course,  in  these  days  of  general 
invasion  of  all  public  property,  the  lecture-rooms  are  given  up  to  be 
the  arenas  of  the  political  discussions  of  the  students.  Old  dark  courts, 
like  those  of  some  of  our  English  ooUeaes,  are  to  be  traversed,  broad 
old  stone  staircases  to  be  mounted.  A  distant  clamour,  that  grows 
thicker  and  louder  on  his  ear  as  he  goes  on,  leads  the  inexperienced 
wanderer  to  the  scene  of  the  modem  lectureship  of  those  who  have 
been  once  taught,  and  now  would  teach  all  France  in  their  turn.  The 
picture  is  enframed  by  one  of  the  vast  halls  of  the  Sorbonne.  An  ob- 
long amphitheatre  of  seats  sweeps  from  one  end  of  it  to  the  other,  and 
is  crowded  by  a  motley  throng :  men  in  smocks,  artisans,  and  kommes 
du  peuple,  are  mixed  with  students  with  kog  hair  and  bristling  beards 
—women  and  little  boys,  who  are  men  in  their  own  conceit, — ^both  one 
and  the  other  mingle  among  the  audience.  In  the  length  of  the  room, 
opposite  this  amphitheatre,  are  erected  the  sine  qud  nwn  accessories  be- 
longing to  all  these  clubs,  the  president's  tribune  and  the  rostrum  of 
the  orator :  on  the  former,  men  en  blouse  are  mingled  as  secretaries 
with  the  students,  who  evidently  endeavour  thus  to  show  their  frater- 
nisation with  the  pe<M>k :  if  they  had  not  a  fitting  artisan  for  the  pur- 
pose, they  would  proliably  dress  one  of  their  own  body  in  a  smoct  to 
typify  this  touching  unity.  Above  the  dark  fermenting  mass  of  young 
republican  spirits  bmgs  the  gaily  decorated  ceiling  of  the  hall,  painted 


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OF  PARTS.  613 

with  scenes  from  the  history  of  the  Sorbonne :  aroand^  in  niches,  are 
the  vehite  stataes  of  the  ecclesiastical  worthies  of  French  history ;  one 
picture,  that  of  the  ex -king  perhaps,  is  alone  covered  with  a  dark  cloth, 
upon  which  is  pinned  a  paper  witn  the  words  "  RepuBUque  Frangaise," 
All  this  aristocratic  pomp  of  unirersity  grandeur  forms  a  strange  con- 
trast to  the  moh  oiolubbistes  that  fills  that  once  exclusive  halL  There 
is  noise  and  ferment  as  usual ;  but,  be  it  said,  for  what  is  generally 
called  **  the  tumuHuous  youth  of  the  schools/'  it  displays  more  order 
and  propriety,  and  sense  of  parliamentary  form,  than  is  to  be  found  in 
general  in  these  assemblies  of  French  democrats ;  there  is  more  argii* 
ment,  too,  among  them,  more  reasoning,  more  solid  instruction,  and, 
eonsei^uently,  more  sense,  less  rapid  declamation  of  **  cat  and  dried  " 
theatrical  phrases,  less  applause  of  phrase>making,  less  Utopian  non- 
sense. But,  at  the  same  time,  they  have  got  far  l^yond  their  contem- 
poraries; and  they  discuss  the  future  republican  constitution  of  the 
country,  and  all  its  details,  to  be  enjoined  to  the  future  representatives 
they  intend  to  elect,  with  an  aplomb,  and  decision,  as  if  they  them- 
selves were  the  censtitnent  assembly,  and  their  dictates  uncontrovert- 
able.    The  youth  of  the  schools  have,  however,  the  soundest  heads. 

See !  another  picture  I  The  scene  is  in  a  distant  faubourg.  It  again 
represents  a  ball-room,  but  a  rude  people's  holiday  ball-room,  such  as 
France  exhibits  everywhere*  It  is  crowded  with  the  working  classes ; 
but  they  dance  no  longer.  The  orchestra  is  again  replaced  by  the 
tribune :  they  discuss  the  interests  of  their  country.  But  honour  again 
to  the  better  class  of  workmen  in  distracted  France  I  and  grant  it,  rro- 
vidence,  that  they  be  not  in  a  sad  minority.  Hark  to  them  here  I  they 
have  far  more  sense  and  reason,  and  form  and  method,  than  those  vain 
men  who  deem  themselves  their  leaders  and  instructors,  and  would 
mislead  with  frenzied  Utopian  dreams.  Let  us  do  the  picture  honour, 
and  pass  on. 

A  Uut  picture,  for  the  Flaneur's  sketch-book  is  nearly  filled.  It  is 
a  confused  one,  confused  as  a  fieeting  nightmare— slurred  over  as  soon 
as  sketched,  and  haply  never  to  be  painted  again ;  or,  if  it  be  here- 
after, it  will  be  in  blood-red  coionrs,  and  not  as  the  fieeting  caricature 
as  which  it  was  painted  lately*  The  scene  is  now  a  narrow  dirty  room 
—a  district  sdiool-house.  A  bttriy  red-fieused  man,  with  a  Phrygian 
cap  of  liberty  upon  his  head,  a  red  scarf  roun^  his  waist,  and  a  pike  in 
his  hand,  stands  surrounded  by  a  few  friends  upon  an  elevation  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  rootti :  he  tries  to  speak— a  tumult  chokes  his  voice ; 
he  bellows — a  husdred  voices  belkw  louder  still :  he  waves  his  pike, 
the  screams  of  execration  nearly  shatter  the  poor  room.  It  is  with  dif- 
ficulty you  can  learn  that  this  blood-red  patriot  is  desirous  of  re-esta- 
blishing a  dab  of  Jacobins.  But  the  verv  name,  the  least  recollection 
of  a  fevf^l  past  is  odteos  to  the  better  tnii^ng.  In  vain  his  friends 
assert  that  tiie  honest,  stont-hettrted  artisans  who'  fill  the  room  are  all 
salaried  agents  of  aristocrats :  they  cry,  **  Down  with  all  Jacobins ! 
down  with  all  terror !  down  with  the  blood-red  scarf!-'  They  mount 
the  benches :  they  invlade  the  tribune  like  an  angry  tide :  they  drive 
the  would-be  Jacobin  leader  from  his  post,  and  with  scornful  mockery, 
the  candles  from  the  president's  table  in  their  hands,  they  follow  him 
to  the  door,  through  which  he  passes  to  return  no  more.  Honour  to 
these  artisans  asam !  they  have  triumphed  in  the  cause  of  humanity. 
But  again,  how  long  will  the  better  thinking  among  the  lower  classes 
be  able  to  maintain  their  sway  ? 

p  p2 


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514 


WELCOME,    SWEET    MAY! 


Welcome,  sweet  May  I  whose  hand  has  strewn  again, 
0*er  bower  and  plain, 
Odours  and  hues,  a  balmy  store. 
Which  breathing  lie  on  Nature's  breast ; 
Nature  herself  so  richly  drest. 

That  we,'  of  heaven  can  ask  for  her  no  more. 

May  >  who  now  puttest  forth  the  kawthom*s  hue. 
And  woodbine  too. 

The  harebell,  lily  cup,  and  rose  ; 

Wild  thyme  and  eglantine  art  spreading ; 

And  where  thy  fairy  footstep  now  is  treading, 
Their  dark  blue  eyes  the  violets  unclose. 

To  thee  the  birds  now  warble  through  the  grove 
In  melodies  of  love. 
The  grateful  tribute  of  their  little  lays  ; 
And  shall  this  gladsome  heart  from  thee  withhold, 
Sweet  season  !  that  such  beauties  doth  unfold, 

The  happy  contribution  of  its  praise  ? 

How  sweet  to  view  thee  at  the  opening  day, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away. 
Thy  golden  tresses  streaming  to  the  mom, 
Startung  the  dappled  lark  from  his  moist  bed, 
And  kiuing  into  bloom  each  pendant  head, 

That  fMed  sleeps  upon  the  spangled  lawn  I 

How  sweet  to  find  thee  by  the  noontide  dell. 
Cool  grot,  or  forest  well. 
Thy  locks  aU  motionless,  thy  music  still; 
At  eve  to  woo  thee  by  the  crimsonM  stream. 
And  watch  the  stars  that  in  its  bosom  gleam, 

While  the  young  moon  peers  o'er  the  distant  hill  f 

Oh  1  let  thy  slanderers  call  thee  a  coquet, 
I  'U  love  thee  yet, 
As  I  from  4)oyhood  loved  thy  beauteous  smile. 
When  bounding  with  thee  over  mead  and  mountain. 
Or  lingering  bmide  some  mossy  fountain, 

Whose  low  mellifluous  music  charmed  the  while. 

For  I  remember  how  we  used  to  meet, 
And  cowslips  sweet 
I  Ve  plucked  for  thee  ;  daisies  and  purpling  heath. 
And  pinks  and  primroses  at  early  dawn ; 
And  thy  sweet  namesake  from  the  flowering  thorn. 

Charged  with  the  btHmy  fragrance  of  thy  breath. 

Those  days  are  gonfr^yet  (rail  they  as  they  will) 
1 11  love  thee  still 
As  I  have  loved  thee,  spite  of  all  they  say — 
Beautiful,  morning,  noon,  and  eve,  art  thou  f 
Come  I  let  me  seal  my  truth  upon  thy  brow. 

And  vow  to  love  thee  ever,  beauteous  May ! 


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515 


SOME  CHAPTERS  OP  THE  LIFE  OP  AN  OLD 
POLITICIAN. 

CHAPTER   I. 

Impartialitt  is  what  I  may  term  my  vanity.  I  have  through  life 
prided  myself  apon  maintaining  it :  no  matter  who  was  concerned^ 
what  I  really  felt,  I  was  in  the  habit  of  expressing.  If  I  thought  my 
friends  wrong,  I  said  so,  and  opposed  them ;  if  I  deemed  all  parties 
in  error,  I  was  equally  sincere,  and  acted  upon  my  opinion.  The  re- 
sult may  easily  be  fore8een,-*being  of  no  use  as  a  partj  man,  I  was 
universally  decried.  The  r^ular  politicians  called  me  impracticable, 
and  set  me  aside  in  all  their  calculations.  The  House  listened  to  me 
sometimes  for  amusement,  which  in  various  ways  I  afforded  them, — 
sometimes  even  for  instruction,  which,  upon  difficult  occasions,  they 
not  seldom  fancied  I  could  afford;  but  still,  my  advice  was  never 
taken.  How  many  times  have  I  heard  men  exclaim  around  me, 
**  Upon  mv  soul,  I  believe  the  old  fellow  right,  but  it  is  impossible  to 
do  what  he  proposes."  Why  it  was  impossible,  was  what  I  never 
could  discover.  Difficult,  disagreeable,  not  flattering  to  ministerial  or 
statesmen's  vanity, — ^these  attributes  I  could  see  belonged  often  to  the 
course  I  pointed  out ;  but  impossible,  never.  Still  the  result  was  the 
same ;  I  appeared  a  beacon,  set  up  to  light  a  path  in  order  that  it 
might  be  avoided. 

This  quality,  however,  which  thus  destroyed  all  hopes  of  power  or 
influence,  peculiarly  fits  me  to  be  the  gossipping  histonan  of  the  scenes 
throueh  which  I  have  passed.  I  have  no  party— -few  personal  pre- 
dilections ;  I  can  blame  without  pain,  praise  without  any  feeling  of 
jealousy.  I  may  often  be  in  error;  but  no  one  will,  I  think,  h&Ye 
reason  to  charge  me  with  intending  to  deceive. 

For  obvious  reasons,  much  of  what  is  to  follow  will  consist  of  his- 
torical pictures,  not  actual  portraits.  Of  men  whose  names  have  be- 
come matter  of  history,  I  shall  speak  openly  and  without  reserve.  In 
other  instances,  I  shall  describe  general  characters,  give  accounts  of 
classes,  and  not  individuals ;  and  thus  attain  my  end  of  producing  a 
picture  of  the  times  without  betraying  any  confidence  or  wounding  any 
personal  vanity. 

Of  myself  and  my  own  history,  more  than  a  very  slight  sketch  is 
not  needfed  by  way  of  preliminary.  After  a  life  of  strange  vicissitudes, 
after  sojourning  during  my  youth  in  many  lauds,  1  resolved,  and 
carried  out  my  determination,  to  establish  myself  at  home,  and  became 
an  active  politician.  To  this  end,  I  acquired  the  status  of  a  barrister 
— added  the  mere  technical  lore,  which  is  called  a  knowledge  of  Eng- 
lish  law,  to  the  heap  of  somewhat  undigested- information  and  learning 
already  crammed  into  my  head — ate  my  terms— spent  many  months 
in  the  chambers  of  a  pleader — took  chambers  in  the  Temple — went 
sessions  and  circuit— -and  became  acquainted  with  that  vast  variety  of 
men  and  manners  which  a  lawyer's  way  of  life  brings  before  him. 

Before  I  rush  into  politics,  let  me  say  a  few  words  of  the  profession 
to  which  I  belong,  but  for  which,  nevertheless,  I  have  not  that  regard 
which  success  inspires— which  a  peculiar,  profound,  though  narrow 
knowledge  is  but  too  apt  to  create.    3/y  mind  certainly  has  not  been 


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516  THE  JJFE  OF 

cramped  by  exclusive  attention  to  lesal  learning — my  r^;ard  has  not 
been  won  by  golden  acquisitions.  In  this  case,  as  in  most  others,  I 
believe  I  can  speak  iwtparHoM^,  Mj  besetlivg  vanity  kf rt>  even,  is 
manifest ! 

It  is  the  fiashion,  more  especially  among  the  political  class,  to  speak 
of  lawyers  as  narrow-minded,  in  the  words  of  Mr.  Pitt,  as  *'  unequal 
to  the  grasp  of  empire."  When  I  run  over  in  my  memory  the  men 
whom  I  have  seen  enactins  statesmen— wkem  I  gange  tlieir  mental 
capacity,  and  compare  it  with  that  of  the  class  wmch  is  thua  stigmar 
tized  as  narrow-minded,  I  confess  myself  puasled  and  amazed.  Never- 
theless, the  saying,  that  tbere  is  usually  some  truth  at  the  foundation 
of  all  generally-received  opinions»  holds  good  in  the  particular  instance. 
The  injustice  of  the  opinion  lies  in  its  special  and  exdusive  applica- 
tion. Lawyers  are  no  more  unfit  for  the  business  of  government  than 
any  other  class.  Unfortunately  for  themselves,  their  unfitness  be- 
comes more  apparent  to  the  public,  because  they  are  brought  more 
directly  and  prominently  before  the  public  gaie ;  and  bein^  by  habit 
able  to  talk,  they  more  rapidly  than  other  classes  make  manifiest  their 
ignorance. 

In  our  present  state  of  society,  succesa  in  everjr  station  is  attended 
with  violent  competitioik  To  gain  a  mere  livelihood,  whether  as  a 
carpenter  or  a  lawyer,  requires  undivided  attentimi.  The  physician, 
who  is  not  to  be  found  at  every  time  of  the  day  and  niflht«-the  lawyer 
who  is  not,  with  untiring  regularity,  at  chambers  and  in  court--the 
merchant  whose  whole  soul  and  time  are  not  devoted  to  his  businesa 
and  his  counting-house — the  tradesman  whose  life  is  not  spent  in  his 
shop— will  not  succeed.  There  must  be  no  dallying  with  this,  the 
main  business  of  life.  This  direful  industry  does  not,  indeed,  always 
succeed ;  but  without  it,  failure  ia  certain. 

The  necessary  result  of  this  great  necessity  ia  %o  confine  a  man's 
thoughts  to  a  fixed  and  certain  routine.  He  olten  within  hia  sphere 
under  the  powerful  stimulua  of  modem  competition,  aoiuurea  an 
almost  supernatural  ability ;  but  beyond  that  sphere  he  haa  setdooi  thm 
wish,  still  more  seldom  the  a^citv,  te  advance.  Any  country  gjuil 
could  walk  Taglioni  or  Elsler  to  death  in  a  di^ ;  yet  these  ariisics 
have,  by  constant  labour,  acquired  a  power  almost  superhuman :  they 
are  unrivaled  dan^rs,  but  can  hardly  walk  a  mile. 

The  labour  of  a  lawyer  is,  besides»  wholly  intelleetual^  and  anv 
other  mode  of  intellectual  exertion  hardly  proves  a  relaxation.  With 
the  merchant,  the  tradesman,  artizan,  or  politician,  this  is  not  the  case. 
Much  of  their  labour  is  routine^  and  literature  may  supply  them  with 
pleasureable  occupation,  which  serves  to  nnbend  their  thoughts,  and 
IS,  in  fact,  a  relief.  The  mind  of  a  lawyer  is,  therefore,  more  com* 
pletely  confined  to  one  mode  of  action,  to  one  species  of  knowledge, 
than  that  of  the  other  classes  of  society.  This  tendency  is»  however, 
counteracted,  more  especially  among  the  men  of  the  common-law  bar, 
by  the  variety  of  human  transactions  with  which  they  are  compelled 
to  be  conversant— the  many  classes  with  whom  they  come  in  contact; 
They  are,  for  the  most  part,  shrewd  and  active-minded,  amusing  gene* 
rally  as  companions,  because  of  their  dexterity  in  unraveling  eviaenoe 
and  detecting  the  working  of  human  motives  in  particular  oases;  but, 
from  tlie  very  nature  of  their  employment,  unfitted  to  discover  and 
appreciate  the  probable  effects  upon  a  community  of  new  combina* 
tions  of  circumstances,  whether  brought  about  by  chance  or  the  direct 


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AN   OLD  POLinClAlC,  517 

will  of  the  l^dattire*  To  learn  hma  many  combined  decisHmsj  and 
from  the  conflicting,  ragne,  and  rarying  language  of  Parliamentary 
law^  what  the  law  actually  is^-*to  ascertain  whether,  in  a  given  case, 
that  law  has  been  yidated  by  one  party  or  the  othei^— this,  which  is 
the  ordinary  business  df  a  lawyer,  is  a  very  different  thing  from  pro^ 
phesying  what^  will  be  the  effect  on  the  well-bdng  of  a  community 
from  a  dhange  in  their  law  or  in  their  general  policy.  The  one  office 
is  that  of  the  lawyer ;  the  otbet,  that  of  the  statesman.  With  a  few 
brilliant  exceptions,  English  lawyers  have  not  shone  as  statesmen. 

To  those  unacquainted  with  the  House  of  Commons,  this  failure  on 
the  part  of  lawyers  appears  wholly  unaccountable.  The  life  of  a  law- 
yer IS  passed  in  speaking.  All  his  success  depends,  it  is  supposed, 
upon  hJs  power  of  winning  juries  and  judges  to  his  view  of  a  subject, 
lie  must  be  ready  of  resource,  endowed  with  much  learning,  have 
fiicility,  at  least,  of  speech ;  and  in  instances  of  great  success,  he  is 
usually  endowed  with  great  eloquence :  nevertheless,  possessed  though 
he  may  be  of  all  these,  and  many  other  advantages,  tne  most  success- 
Ail  advocates  have  almost  invariably  been  without  influence  in  the 
House  of  CSommons.  Mr.  Pitt's  sarcastic  observation,  as  above  ouoted, 
was  made  when  speaking  of  the  greatest  and  most  successful  advocate 
that  ever  graced  the  English  bar— of  Lord  Srskine.  He,  though  the 
most  eloquent  and  effective  of  advocates,  never  shone  with  anything 
beyond  a  secondary  lustre  in  Parliament,  whether  in  the  House  ot 
Commons,  or  afterwards  in  the  Peers.  Aiiy  one  ^o  has  addressed  a 
court  and  jury,  and  passed  a  session  in  the  House  of  Commons,  has  feft 
why  this  is  so;  though,  perhaps,  he  may  not  be  quite  able  to  explain 
the  phenomenon. 

lawyers  usualljr  have  passed  middle  age  before  they  succeed  in 
forcing  their  way  into  Parliament.  Prudence  suggests  to  the  ambi 
tious  barrister  that  his  first  great  care  and  duty  is  to  place  himself  be- 
yond the  reach  of  want.  Independence  he  must  attain  before  he 
attempts  to  win  political  renown.  But  independence  can  only  be  won 
by  years  of  steady  labour,  and  by  great  success.  By  the  time  that  a 
man  is  rich  enough  to  venture  into  politics  he  has  grown  ereyr  in  the 
harness  of  a  lawyer ;  he  has  become  too  old  to  acquire  new  habits,  and 
cannot  unlearn  his  old  ones.  He  enters  the  House,  perhaps  attended 
by  a  great  legal  renown.  Much  is  expected  of  him ;  and,  on  a  sudden, 
the  actual  moment  has  arrived  in  which  he  is  to  justify  a  high- wrought 
expectation.  The  probability  is,  that  many  a  time  and  oft,  while  ;^et 
the  addition  of  M.r.  was  but  a  dim  vision  of  the  future,  he  has  in- 
dulged in  many  contemptuous  flings  at  the  Honourable  House,  its  mode 
of  i^oceedings,  its  doings,  and  its  heroes.  He  has  often  vincUcated  his 
own  superiority  in  ideal  debate ;  grappled  in  fancy  with  the  great 
leaders  of  party,  and  shewn  a  patient  and  admiring  audience  how  to 
conduct  an  argument.  The  vision  of  his  youth  and  his  ambition  has 
become  partly  a  reality.  The  occasion  for  which  he  has  long  sighed 
has  at  length  been  granted,  and  he  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  sees  the 
finger  of  the  Speaker  pointed  at  himself,  and  his  own  name  loudly  and 

S a vely  pronounced  by  that  imposing  personage.  He  looks  around  :— 
ow  different  the  speietacle  whicb  meets  his  gase  firom  that  to  which  be 
has  been  hitherto  accustomed  !  In  place  of  we  calm,  grave,  and  studied 
attention  of  the  court,  its  enforced,  yet  generally  bliwd  courtesy,— in- 
stead of  the  obedient,  and  usually  stdid  yet  respectful  jury, — be  sees 
before^  aieaad,  about  him,  wheresoever  he  turns  hit  eyes,  an  expectant. 


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518  THE   LIFE  OF 

^er,  and,  in  a  lairge  section  of  the  assembly^  an  hostile  audience. 
Quiet  and  attention  are  there,  becaose  to  a  straneer  prescriptive 
courtesy  always  affords  both  precedence  and  a  willing  hearing ;  but  no 
judicial  dignity  subdues  the  real  hostility,— -no  notion  of  inferiority  en- 
forces respectM  attention.  He  feels  that  he  is  about  to  address  the 
most  powerful  body  of  men  which  the  world  ever  beheld  assembled. 
Of  these,  he  knows  his  friends  to  be  anxious,  ^m  the  fear  of  fisdlure, 
and  the  hope  of  his  success.  His  political  opponents  he  perceives  upon 
the  watch,  with  keen  looks  surveying  him.  Over  their  countenances  he 
can  detect  the  passage  of  a  polished  yet  bitter  sneer,  as  if  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  anticipated  triumph ;  and  the  very  cheers  by  which  he  is,  as  a 
new  member,  greeted  from  all  parts  of  the  house,  create  in  him  a  sense 
rather  of  inferiority  than  of  ease.  The  cheers  are  hearty,  intended 
weU ;  but  they  are  plainly  patronising.  Away  flies  all  his  fancied 
superiority;  fear  enters  his  soul;  a  mist  is  over  his  eyes,  and  his 
parched  mouth  almost  refuses  to  utter  the  words  of  customary  depreca- 
tion with  which  a  new  member  usually  commences.  His  friends  be- 
come more  anxious ;  his  opponents  more  ftill  of  hope*  The  cheers  on 
all  sides  grow  louder,  and  his  courage  more  perceptibly  falters.  So 
soon  as  he  begins  what  is  really  his  speech  perfect  silence  succeeds ; 
and  in  that  strange  assembly  which  he  is  now  addressing  he  finds  a 
critical  acumen  far  above  that  possessed  by  any  individual  of  those 
composing  it.  By  a  species  of  divination  they  arrive  at  a  judgment 
concerning  the  new  speaker.  In  ^ve  minutes  have  I  often  beheld  new 
men,  coming  with  a  promising  reputation,  consigned  for  ever  to  a  hope- 
less and  miserable  mediocrity.  Received  with  perfect  attention  and 
courtesy  for  the  first  minutes,  he  sees  his  friends  become  alarmed,  and 
casting  down  their  eyes,  while  the  patronising  pity  of  his  opponents 
becomes  more  apparent.  The  leaders  evince,  what  they  make  every 
body  perceive  to  be,  a  forced  attention ;  while  ^ends  and  foes  at  length 
equally  seek  a  relief  in  talking  each  to  his  neighbour.  For  the  moment 
they  are  evidently  talking  of  the  unfortunate  member  on  his  legs.  This 
theme  is  quickly  forgotten,  and  the  noise  becomes  greater ;  when  the 
Speaker,  as  if  of  malice  aforethought,  but  really  from  pity,  cries, 
*' Order  I  order !"  Perhaps  an  angry,  injudicious  friend  cries  "  Order  !" 
also,  and  tlius  embroils  the  fray.  The  hubbub  continues,  increases. 
Friends  creep,  foes  stalk  away.  In  parliamentary  phrase,  the  new 
member  ''  has  broken  down." 

From  this  first  decision,  which  is  almost  always  a  just  one,  there  is 
often  an  appeal ;  when  by  care,  real  ability,  and  i^eiterated  efforts,  suc- 
cess is  attained.  But  the  man  who  is  great  elsewhere,  the  successful 
advocate,  is  just  the  person  not  to  make  this  effort.  His  wounded 
vanity,  consoled  by  forensic  success,  shrinks  from  a  second  attempt.  If 
he  speak  at  all,  it  is  simply  on  professional  subjects,  without  preten- 
sion, and  therefore  with  su^cient  effect.  Into  the  great  arena  of  party 
strife  he  does  not  again  descend ;  its  dazzling  glory  he  never  attempts 
to  gain.  He  may  attain  the  woolsack  without  having  acquired  a  states- 
man's renown. 

I  had  for  some  years  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  was  gradually 
being  drawn  within  the  current  of  its  influence,  and  began  to  waver 
in  my  first  and  long-cherished  resolution  to  become  a  politician.  The 
society  of  my  legal  brethren  was  to  me  in  the  highest  degree  agreeable; 
the  honours  of  my  profession  appeared  within  my  reach ;  its  emolu- 
ments I  hoped  also  to  win,  and  began  highly  to  prize.     At  this  critical 


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AN  OLD  POLITICIAN.  519 

moment^  when  my  more  pradent  fnends  thought  me  fairly  engaged  in 
what  they  believed  would  be  a  successful  career^  and  when  a  few 
months  more  would  indeed  have  thrown  around  me  the  chains  of  habit 
and  engagements.  Lord  Liverpool  was  struck  with  paralysis,  — -  the 
whole  poutical  world  was  stirrra  even  to  its  profbundest  depths, — and 
a  powerful  and  startling,  excitement  extended  itself  rapidly  throughout 
the  whole  community.  A  great  change  had  been  silently  wrou^t  in 
the  public  mind  since  the  time 

^*  When  George  the  Third  was  King." 

The  liberty  of  the  press  had  gradually  been  completely  won ;  political 
science  had  by  daring  thinkers,  and  sagacious  ones  too,  been  materially 
advanced,  and  widely  discussed.  The  doctrines  of  commercial  freedom 
had  found  their  way  into  the  cabinet,  and  were  beginning  to  be  mani- 
fest in  the  enactments  of  the  legislature.  The  uncouth  mass,  which 
had  been  honoured  with  the  name  of  law,  was  subjected  to  inquiry  and 
to  change,  and  the  great  principles  of  religious  freedom  were  adopted, 
in  fEu:t,  by  a  maiority  of  the  House  of  Commons.  So  long  as  Lord 
Liverpool  was  able  to  retain  the  premiership,  political  parties  appeared 
little  affected  by  the  great  moral  and  intellectual  changes  which  had 
occurred  in  the  public  mind.  The  Tory  party  still  seemed  a  coherent 
and  united  body,  and  the  Whigs  a  respectable,  but  bv  no  means  a  for- 
midable minority.  The  changes  and  improvements  which  from  time  to 
time  were  proposed  and  carried  in  our  laws,  came  as  voluntarv  minis- 
terial proposals ;  the  result  of  their  own  enlightened  will,  not  the  effect 
of  popular  demands  and  pressure  from  without.  The  exterior  surfieuse 
of  society  never  appeared  more  unruffled.  The  aristocratic  dominion 
never  seemed  more  secure.  Nevertheless,  its  foundations  were  really 
sapped,  and  many  of  the  old  institutions  of  our  land  were  tottering  to 
theur  falL  Mr.  Canning,  by  a  stranee  fatality,  was  the  first  to  make 
manifest  the  mighty  change  that  had  occurred.  The  vehement,  viru« 
lent  opponent  of  chance ;  he  who  in  his  youth  had  been  the  most  eager 
allv  of  Mr.  Pitt  in  his  grand  crusade  against  regenerate  France  and 
political  liberty,  was  destined  in  the  last  days  of  his  career  to  be,  as  it 
were,  a  sign  and  signal  of  the  futility  of  his  early  struggles ;  to  head 
the  more  Eberal  section  of  his  party  ;  to  separate  the  hitherto  compact 
body  of  the  Tories,  and  thus  to  deprive  them  of  that  overwhelming 
majority  with  which  they  had  hitherto  resisted  all  reform.  Mr.  Can- 
ning, indeed,  did  not  live  himself  to  effect  any  great  change.  He  lived, 
nevertheless,  long  enough  to  create  a  fatal  dissension  in  his  party, — to 
sow  the  seeds  of  Uiat  jefuousv  and  hate  which  have  rendered  any  cordial 
reunion  impossible,  and  which  eventually  led  to  that  utter  subversion 
of  all  the  old  party  landmarks,  which  we  have  seen  take  place.  Politics 
now  became  an  exciting  game ;  into  which,  with  inconsiderate  ardour, 
I  heedlessly  rushed.  Every  day  brought  some  change,  and  held  out  the 
prospect  of  still  greater  reforms.  Catholic  emancipation  excited  the 
kingdom  from  one  end  to  the  other*  In  spite  of  our  ancient  hate  of 
popery,— in  spite  of  the  wishes  of  the  numerical  majority  of  the  people 
of  Great  Britain,  political  freedom  was  granted  to  the  Catholics  of  the 
whole  empire.  Tnen  came  the  repeal  of  the  Test  and  Corporation 
Laws ;  and  now  was  seen  the  real  and  mighty  effect  of  these  unex- 
pected changes.  The  actual  freedom  acquired  was  not  much.  The 
composition  either  of  the  House  of  Commons,  or  of  the  corporations  of 
England  would,  in  fact,  have  remained  precisely  what  it  had  been,  had 


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520  THE  LIFE  OF 

no  furthtr  adrttnoe  been  ntode.  A  ptttnfal  badge  of  inferiDrity,  and 
tb«  riiaoie  and  irritatioQ  attendant  on  h,  had  been  in  some  metanre 
removed  from  the  Catholio  and  Diaaoiter ;  bnt  nothinc  had  been  really 
and  direetly  done  for  the  eood  gorernment  of  ^e  people>  but  modi  bad 
been  indirectly  gained.  Mr.  Canning's  elevatioD,  tho«igh  a  serious^  was 
net  a  very  apparent  shock  to  the  Tory  party.  His  friends,  although 
distinguished  men^  were  not  nnmerons ;  and  their  separation  from  th^r 
old  friends  did  not  appear  at  first  much  to  diminish  the  strength  of  the 
Tories.  Bat,  when  the  Duke  of  Wellington  determined  to  grant  Ca- 
tholic emancipation,  and  Mr.  Peel  declar^  that  he  was  prepttfed  to  be 
the  instmment  by  which  the  law  itself  which  effected  this  change  was 
to  be  proposed  and  carried,  a  violent  rent  split  the  whole  temple  of 
Tory  power  in  twain,  and  rendered  all  hopes  of  its  reconstmction  vain 
and  impossible.  The  Whigs  threw  themselves,  as  supporters,  into  the 
ranks  of  the  more  liberal  section  of  their  old  opponents,  and,  by  thus 
mingling  in  the  strife,  added  to  the  strength  of  tnat  jealonsy  anci  hate 
which  a&eady  seemed  sufficient  to  prevent  any  chance  of  reconciliation. 
In  the  midst  of  this  turmoil  and  confusion  two  events  occurred,  that 
served  greatly  to  increase  the  excitement  and  hostility, — George  the 
Fourth  died,  and  the  French  Revolution  of  1830  fell  like  a  bomb  upon 
•startled  Europe. 

Alter  the  accession  of  WiUiam  IV.,  and  during  the  fervour  and  ad- 
miration caused  by  the  three  days  at  Paris,  a  general  election  occurred 
in  England.  This  parliament  was  destined  to  witness  great  events. 
A  strong  feeling  of  moontent  was  manifest  among  the  labouring  dasses 
tlmmghont  the  country.  F^res  Uased  along  the  sonthem  ooasu,  the 
vast  manufacturing  districts  sent  forth  their  thousands  in  great  meet* 
ings,  to  make  loud  complaints.  In  London,  the  same  discontent  was 
m  loudly  expressed,  and  alarming  crowds  gathered  in,  perambulated 
and  obstructed,  the  chief  thorougfaftres.  At  length  came  the  famous 
9th  of  November,  on  ^ioh  the  Duke  of  Weliingtoa  advised  the  king 
not  to  be  present  at  the  grand  banouet  of  the  city,  because  of  the 
danger  to  his  roval  person,  that  would  exist  while  passing  from  his 
palfM  to  tiie  Ouudhall.  Advice  that  took  the  world  by  surprise,  and 
which  oertainly  tiie  character  of  the  people,  and  the  events  oi  the  time 
did  not  justify.  The  gentry,  the  manufacturing  classes,  tradesmen,  and 
all  persons  possessed  of  property,  became  now  seriously  alarmed.  The 
Whigs  as  a  political  party  promptly  todc  advantage  of  the  condition  of 
afftdrs,  and  for  once  in  their  career,  proposed  a  bold  measure  on  the  side 
of  good  government.  Sir  Henry  Porhell's  motion*  had  given  them  a 
majority  against  the  ministrv ;  the  Duke  of  Welliuffton  and  the  whole 
Tory  party  resigned  in  a  body.  The  king  sent  for  Lord  Ghrev,  and  the 
Whigs,  after  a  quarter  of  a  century  of  exclusion,  found  tnemselves 
once  again  possmed  of  office.  During  the  many  angry  discussions 
which  had  occurred  out  of  doors,  the  whdi  of  the  united  people  had 
been  plainly  manifested.  The  extraordinary  compontion  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  was  a  byword  of  derision,  and  a  reform  in  parliament 

was  now  universally  demanded.    The  first  great  measure  proposed  by 
....  .  .        .  .         .  j:  r      .,^j^ 


the  new  administration  was  in  consequence  the  celebrated  Rerorm  bill 
Throughont  the  agitation  which  occurred  out  of  doors,  I  took  an 
active  part  in  the  London  proceedings,  and  became  thoroughly  initiated 

*  The  Whig  party  acquired  power  by  professing  economy ;  they  will  k«e  It 
by  reckleu  waste.  Political  promises  are,  we  suppose,  like  lovers'  rows — and  that 
at  both  Jovsr  laughs. 


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AN   OLD  POLITICIAN.  521 

in  all  the  art  and  mystery  of  mana^^iii^  puUie  ttieetiiigii.  GeUing  \xp 
a  luefol  ezoitementy  concocting,  printings  and  properly  paUidiing  in- 
flammatory placards,  patriotic  resolutions,  and  what  are  called  spirit^ 
stirring  appeals.  I  look  back  in  my  present  calm,  when  age  and  satiety 
have  crept  upon  me,  with  absoluft  wonder,  at  the  real  excitement 
which  I  then  felt.  This  excitement  was  indeed  shared  by  thousands^ 
nay  millions  of  my  coantrymen,  and  we  had  certainly  a  fertile  field  £or 
our  exertions.  Vet  to  attain  our  end,  much  was  said,  that  ne  one  really 
believed  ;  much  was  done,  that  no  one  would  like  to  own.  In  every 
revolution  (and  this  was  a  revolution^,  the  unscrupulous,  idle,  and 
designing  have  necessarily  an  opportunity  £ur  the  employment  of  th^ir 
various  arts,  which  quiet  times  oo  not  aflford.  Luckily,  however,  affairs 
never  came  to  violence,  though  the  danger  was  often  threatened.  la 
fact,  often,  when  there  was  no  danger,  the  cry  of  alarm  was  raised  to 
keep  the  House  of  Lords  and  the  aristocracy  generally  in  what  was 
termed  a  state  of  wholesome  terror.  When  the  Bill  proceeded  with 
ease,  and  its  provisions  were  to  our  taste,  all  was  sunshine,  quiet,  and 
order,  and  a  grave  calm  was  preserved  in  our  demeanour  and  writings* 
But  when  some  recalcitrant  Tory  attacked  the  Bill,  when  its  provisions 
were  threatened  either  with  ^truction  or  even  mutilation.  Mack 
clouds  rose  obedient  to  our  call,  as  regularly  as  on  the  stage  at  the 
scene-*shifter's  command;  our  language  grew  violent,  we  stormed, 
we  threatened  and  prophesied^  and,like  some  other  prophets,  we  were 
determined  to  accomptidi  our  own  predictions.  Prooesnons,  meetk^gs, 
harangues,  revolutionary  resolutaoos,  banners,  mobs,  assemblages  both 
by  night  and  day,  all  hke  a  furious  hurricane,  swept  over  the  fice  of 
the  ^»litical  waters.  They  who  pulled  the  strings  in  tlus  strange 
puppet-show  were  cool-headed,  retiring,  sagaciouSf  determined  met. 
Tna^  were  never  the  noisy  orators  who  appeared  important,  but  were 
men  studiously  avoiding  publicity  j  not  that  they  wanted  courage. 
If  there  had  been  an  appeal  to  fwce,  I  am  certain  that  the  very  men 
whom  I  saw  at  this  time  keepisc  in  the  back  groundr  would  have  beem 
£[>remost  in  the  fieht.  They  3l,  or  most  of  them,  had  been  active 
during  the  stormy  days  of  03',  knew  well  the  character  of  their  country- 
men, and  therefore  perceived  that  thehr  names  were  of  no  use^  whatever 
might  be  the  real  utility  of  their  experience  and  ability.^-They  directed 
everything,  but  never  came  before  the  pubtic  as  leaders.  They  deter- 
mined «^Mt  ■mtings  shoAld  be  held,  what  reselutiena  should  be  pfie- 
posed,  who  should  piesUa,  who  shsnld  speak,  mnd  not  eddon  i^Mt 
should  be  said.  They  ffot  around  them  men  of  various  ability,  some 
could  write,  readily  and  well ;  some  could  put  a  striking  placard  skil- 
fully together;  some  could  off-hand  compose  an  eloquent  address; 
others  a  well-reasoned  logical  argument ;  some,  on  the  other  hand, 
were  eloquent,  and  some  were  simply  audacious.  Every  kind  of 
ability  was  useful,  and  all  were  in  due  season  effectively  employed. 
The  machinery  of  what  is  now  known  as  peaceful  agitation,  ia  a  thing 
quite  worthy  of  a  philosopher's  regard,  as  a  part,  and  very  important 
part  of  modern  constitutional  governments.  Had  M.  Ouisot  under^ 
stood  it,  and  looked  upon  it  as  the  safety-valve  of  the  political  steam- 
engine,  he  would  not  now  have  been  a  wanderer  cm  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Let  any  one  who  is  curious  in  this  sort  of  speculation  attend 
the  first  great  public  meeting  that  is  called  together  in  consequence  of 
any  real  poHtieal  excitement,  and  he  will  quickly  ascertain,  that  what 
is  done  openly  and  before,  and  Jbr,  the  public,  is  but  a  small  part  of 


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522  THE   LI^E  OF 

what  actually  takes  place.  I  do  not  mean  in  mere  meetloes  of  cere- 
monjT^  but  those  which  are  the  result  of  some  strong  public  feeling. 
Let  the  inquirer  go  to  the  place  of  meeting  an  hour  before  the  time 
appointed^  and  he  will  be  sure  tohear  of  a  committee  sitting  some- 
where, into  whose  room  he  may  fina  some  difficulty  in  obtaining  admit- 
tance. By  properly  proceeding,  however,  he  will  succeed ;  and  when 
there,  let  him  carefully  watch  what  is  going  on.  In  every  case,  whether 
small  or  great  be  the  object,  he  will  find  some  one  or  two  ruling  minds, 
to  the  public  unknown.  The  chiefis  in  council,  but  not  the  men  set 
before  the  public  These  men  use  the  others  as  their  instruments, 
emplojring  the  vanity,  cleverness,  interests,  and  passions  generally  of 
those  around  them,  to  work  out  the  purpose  for  which  they  are  met. 
So  it  was  in  the  political  agitation  of  1890»  whether  in  London  or  Bir- 
mingham ;  the  noisy  men  of  note  were  not  the  real  actors  and  mani^rs 
in  those  scenes,  as  was  made  plain  after  the  passins  of  the  Reform  Bill. 
Men  who  had  swelled  into  importance  by  the  agitation,  who  had,  un- 
known to  the  public,  been  instruments  in  the  hands  of  others,  were  by 
popular  acclaim  sent  into  the  House  of  Commons.  There,  dependent 
on  their  own  ability  only,  they  quickly  fell  from  their  high  estate,  into 
contempt  first,  then  derision,  and  at  last  into  entire  neglect,  serving  as 
a  puzzle  and  wonderment  to  those  who  were  ignorant  of  the  secret  his- 
tory of  the  agitation  by  which  the  Reform  Bill  was  carried  through  an 
unwilling  parliament. 

One  of  the  most  curious  of  the  scenes  which  occurred  in  the  very 
agony  of  the  bill,  iust  when  Lord  Grey  and  his  colleagues  began  to 
falter  and  to  be  frightened  at  the  spirit  which  they  had  evoked,  will 
serve  as  an  illustration  of  the  secret  history  of  those  times,  with  all 
their  strange  doings,  and  strange  results.  Late  one  evening,  news  came 
to  the  committee  sitting  en  permanence,  that  Lord  Grey  and  his  minis- 
try were  about  to  give  up  the  bill,  and  yield  to  the  opposition  of  the 
anstocracy,  who  had  so  long  enjoyed  undisputed  sway  in  a  corrupt 
House  of  Commons.  Great  was  the  hubbub  and  rage  at  this  announce- 
ment, and  all  seemed  hopeless  confusion,  portending  defeat.  Watching 
closely,  I  saw  one  or  two  of  the  quiet  yet  commanding  men  I  have 
endeavoured  to  describe  make  significant  signs  to  each  other,  and  they 
gradually,  quietly,  and  unobserved  by  the  noisy,  raving  talkers,  who 
were  creating  and  maintaining  a  useless  confusion,  stole  away  into  a 
sort  of  small  sanctum  sanctorum,  upon  the  door  of  which  was  pasted  a 
slip  of  paper  on  which  was  written  the  word  private.  This  door  was 
always  locked,  usually  on  the  inside.  It  was  never  fairly  opened,  but 
when  upon  knocking,  some  one  came  to  inquire  what  was  your  business, 
a  space  just  enough  to  admit  a  human  head  appeared,  and  the  head,  not 
booy,  was  thrust  through,  to  receive  your  message,  or  answer  your 
question.  These  men  retired,  and  I  followed,  was  admitted,  and  saw 
how  real  business  was  conducted.  We  drew  our  chairs  round  a  small 
table,  with  a  coarse  green  cloth  over  it,  upon  which  were  pens, 
ink,  and  paper.  One  of  the  party,  a  dark,  old,  stem  fellow,  with  a 
slight  cockney  accent,  desired  another  to  take  a  pen.  This  one  so 
commanded  was  a  gentleman,  young,  enthusiastic,  educated.  It  was 
well  understood  he  was  the  writer  of  most  of  the  more  important 
papers  issued.  He  was  honest  too,  and  trusted  by  the  men  of  the 
people,  and  respected  by  them.  And  he  on  the  other  hand,  gave  his 
more  educated  mind  to  be  directed  by  the  experience  of  these  ancient 
agitators. 


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AN  OLD   POLITICIAN.  623 

"  What  are  we  to  do  ?  "  was  anxiously  asked. 

"  fVe  must  frighten  them,"  was  the  answer. 

''How?" 

**  What  is  the  time  ?  Nine  (at  night).  Well^  then,  after  twelve, 
we  will  send  a  deputation  to  Lord  Grey.  They  must  insist  upon  see- 
ing him." 

"  Let  us  all  go,  then." 

*'  No,  no,"  was  the  sagacious  reply*  "  No  reality  we  can  create 
will  he  sufficient  for  our  purpose.  We  must  work  on  Lord  Grey's 
imagination.  We  must  pretend  to  be  frightened  ourselves.  We  must 
send  him  a  parcel  of  London  shopkeepers,— men  who  are,  many  of 
them,  really  frightened, — who  will  tell  him  they  cannot  answer  for 
the  safety  of  the  city  if  the  just  demands  of  the  people  are  trifled  with. 
Lord  Grey  will  get  frightened,  by  looking  upon  their  fright." 

An  address,  full  of  terror,  was  arranged ;  a  list  of  names  for  the 
deputation  made  out,  and  the  tradesman  most  audacious  in  speech 
that  could  be  selected,  was  made  spokesman.  When  everything  was 
properly  settled,  the  deputation  was  sent  off,  two  and  two,  in  hack  car- 
riages, to  Lord  Grey.  About  three  in  the  morning,  I  was  roused  by  a 
friend  coming,  according  to  promise,  to  tell  me  the  result.  He  burst 
into  my  room  in  a  paroxysm  of  laughter.  The  real  contrivers  of  the  scene 
he  knew  as  well  as  I,  and  their  pretended  alarm,  with  the  genuine  and 
cfxtravagant  funk  (the  word  he  used)  of  the  well-selected  deputation, 
was  the  richest  contrast  of  farce  that  chance  ever  threw  in  his  way. 
The  pretenders  kept  an  eye  on  the  real  men.  When  the  last  groaned 
and  sighed,  and  turned  up  the  whites  of  their  eyes  in  their  honest 
fright,  the  former  groaned  and  sighed  louder  and  lonjzer,  and  almost 
cracked  their  eyes  with  shewing  the  whites  thereof.  The  spokesman, 
too,  was  perfect.  So  admirable  an  agony  was  never  exhibited.  He 
talked,  he  sweated,  he  turned  red,  white,  blue, — ^he  implored,  threat- 
ened, stormed,  and  wept,  all  in  a  breath,  until  Lord  Grey,  who  had 
been  suddenly  called  to  receive  this  remarkable  deputation  out  of  his 
bed,— -who  received  them  in  a  half-lighted  room,  knowing  none  of 
them,  but  seeing  before  him  a  set  of  men,  evidently  tradesmen,  in  an 
absolute  agony  of  terror, — got  frightened  himself,  and  promised  every- 
thing. He  would  be  firm.  He  had  great  reliance  on  the  good  sense 
and  loyalty  of  the  people  of  London.  He  besoueht  the  deputation  to 
use  their  jEK)fr^f</  influence  to  maintain  peace  and  order;  to  check  all 
sedition,  and  to  trust  to  constitutional  methods  I  This  was  i^recisely 
the  point  to  which  our  Contrivers,  or  conspirators,  wished  to  bring  him, 
and  one  of  them,  who  had  not  yet  spoken,  here  took  up  the  word,  and 
nailed  the  noble  lord. 

''  Do  your  part,  my  lord,  and  we  will  do  ours.  Peace  will  be  main- 
tained if  you  be  firm,  and  his  Majesty  hold  to  his  benevolent  inten- 
tions ;  if  you  waver,  we  cannot  be  answerable  for  the  consequences ;" 
and  with  this  ominous  sentence  they  all  withdrew. 

''  Hurrah,  my  boy  ! "  shouted  my  friend,  shying  his  hat  up  to  the 
ceiling.     *'  The  funk  of  Lord  Grey  will  save  the  Keform  Bill !" 

*^  So  I  think,"  I  answered ;  "  and  now  let  me  go  to  sleep  :  we  meet 
at  ten  o'clock.  Leave  me,  that 's  a  good  fellow."  I  laid  my  head 
on  the  pillow,  saying  to  myself,  ^'  what  historian  of  this  eventful  pe- 
riod will  relate  or  know  this  important  incident  in  the  drama  now  oe- 
ing  acted  ?    None ;  and  yet  we  read  history,  and  believe  it." 


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624 


THE  SIX  DECISIVE  BATTLES  OP  THE  WORLD. 

MX   PROPBSSOa    ORBASr. 

ThoM  few  battles  of  which  a  contrary  erent  would  have  etientially  yaried  the 
drama  of  the  world  in  all  its  subsequent  scenes. — Uallak. 

No.  V THE  BATTLE  OF  TOURS. 

Thb  broad  tract  of  champaign  country  which  intervene?  between  the 
cities  of  Poictiers  and  Tours,  is  principally  composed  of  a  succession  of 
rich  pasture-landsy  which  are  traversed  and  fertilised  by  the  Cher,  the 
Creuse>  the  Vienne»  the  Claine>  the  Indre,  and  other  tributaries  of 
the  river  Loire.  Here  and  there  the  ground  swells  into  picturesque 
eminences;  and  occasionally  a  belt  of  forest  landj  a  brown  heath,  or  a 
clustering  series  of  vineyards  breaks  the  monotony  of  the  wide-spread 
meadows ;  but  the  general  character  of  the  land  is  that  of  a  grassy 
plain,  and  it  seems  naturally  adapted  for  the  evolutions  of  numerous 
armies,  especially  of  those  vast  bodies  of  cavalry,  which  principally  de- 
cided Uie  fate  of  nations  during  the  centuries  that  folbwed  the  down- 
fall of  Rome,  and  preceded  the  consolidation  of  the  modern  European 
powers. 

This  region  has  been  signalised  by  more  than  one  memorable  oon« 
flict ;  but  it  is  principally  interesting  to  the  historian  by  having  been 
the  scene  of  the  great  victory  won  by  Charles  Martel  over  the  Saraoens» 
▲.u.  732,  which  gave  a  decisive  check  to  the  career  of  Arab  conquest  in 
Western  Europe,  rescued  Christendom  from  Islam,  preserved  the  relica 
of  ancient,  ana  the  germs  of  modem  civilisation,  and  re-established  the 
old  superiority  of  the  Indo-European  over  the  Semitic  fiimily  of 
maokind. 

Sismondi  and  Michelet  have  underrated  the  enduring  interest  of 
this  great  Appeal  of  Battle  between  the  champions  of  the  Crescent 
and  the  Cross.  But,  if  French  writers  have  slighted  the  exploits  of 
their  national  hero,  Uie  Saracenic  trophies  of  Charles  Martel  nave  had 
fuU  justice  done  to  them  by  English  and  German  historians.  Gibbon 
devotes  several  pages  of  his  great  work*  to  the  narrative  of  the  bi^- 
tle  of  Tours,  and  to  the  consideration  of  the  consequences  which 
probably  would  have  resulted  if  Abderrahman's  enterprise  had  not 
been  crushed  by  the  Prankish  chief.  Schlegelt  speaks  of  this  ^'  mighty 
victory "  in  terms  of  fervent  gratitude ;  and  tells  how  '*  the  arm  of 
Charles  Martel  saved  and  delivered  the  Christian  nations  of  the  West 
horn  the  deadly  grasp  of  all  destroying  Islam :"  and  Ranked  points 
out  as  ''one  of  the  most  important  epochs  in  the  histoty  of  the 
world  the  commencement  of  the  eighth  century ;  when  on  the  one 
side  Mahommedanism  threatened  to  overspread  Italy  and  G^aul,  and 
on  the  other  the  ancient  idolatry  of  Saxony  and  Priesland  once  more 

*  VoL  vii.  p.  17*  ^  M^*  CKbbon's  sneering  remariL,  that  if  Jie  Saracen  con- 
quesu  had  not  then  been  checked,  "  Perh^is  the  inttrpreution  ef  the  Koran 
would  now  be  uught  in  the  schools  of  Oz£Brd,  and  her  pulpits  might  demonstrate 
to  a  circumcised  people  the  sanctity  and  truth  of  the  revdation  of  Mahomet,"  has 
almost  an  air  of  regret. 

t  PhUosophj  of  History,  p.  3S1. 

X  History  of  the  Reformation  in  Germany,  toI  i.  p.  6. 


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NO.   V. — ^THE  3ATTLE  OF  TOUM.  525 

forced  its  way  across  the  Rhine.  In  this  peril  of  Christian  instil 
tutions,  a  youthful  prince  of  (Germanic  race>  Karl  MartelU  arose  as 
their  champion ;  maintained  them  with  all  the  energy  which  the  neces- 
sity for  self-defence  calls  forth,  and  finally  extended  them  into  new 
r^ions.'' 

Arnold*  ranks  the  rictory  of  Charles  Martel  even  higher  than  the 
victory  of  Anninius  "  among  those  signal  deliverances  which  have 
affected  for  centuries  the  happiness  of  mankind."  But  by  no  writer  has 
the  importance  of  the  battle  of  Tours  been  more  emphatically  or  more 
eloquently  rec<^nized  than  by  Hallam.  I  quote  with  peculiar  grati« 
tude  that  great  historian's  expressions^  because  it  was  by  them  that  I 
was  first  Ted  to  the  consideration  of  the  present  subject,  and  first 
induced  to  apply  to  the  great  crises  of  military  events  the  test  of  the 
Media  Scientia  of  the  schoolmen,  which  deals  not  only  with  the  actual 
results  of  specific  facts,  but  also  with  the  probable  consequences  of  an 
imagined  change  of  antecedent  occurrences* 

Hallam's  words  aref  "  The  victory  of  Charles  Martel  has  immortalised 
his  name,  and  may  justly  be  redconed  amon^  those  few  bailies,  of  which 
a  conlrary  event  would  nave  essenliaUy  varied  the  drama  of  the  world 
in  all  its  subsequent  scenes ;  with  Mahithon,  Arbela,  the  Metaurus, 
Chalons,  and  Leipsic" 

Those  who  have  honoured  witli  perusal-  the  preoedins  numbers  of 
this  series  of  papers,  will  observe  that  its  list  of  decisive  battles  ci  the 
wwld  differs  in  two  instances  from  that  of  Hallam's,  so  far  as  regards 
ancient  and  mediceval  history.  Nor  will  the  great  battle  of  mmlem 
times,  with  which  this  series  wiU  conclude,  be  the  battle  of  Leipsic.  I 
hope  at  another  time  and  place,  when  these  papers  will  be  laid  before 
the  public  in  a  collected  and  ampler  form,  to  explain  fully  the  negative 
tests  which  have  led  me  to  reject  Arbela,  Chalons,  Leipsic,  and  many 
other  great  battles,  which  at  first  sight  seemed  of  paramount  importance, 
but  whidi,  when  maturely  considered,  appeared  to  be  of  secondary  in«> 
terest ;  inasmuch  as  some  of  them  were  merely  confirmatory  of  an  al* 
ready  existing  bias ;  while  the  effects  of  others  were  limited  to  particu* 
lar  nations  or  particular  periods ;  and  of  others,  a^n,  we  may  sdlely 
predicate  that,  had  they  terminated  differently,  only  temporary  checks 
would  have  been  given  to  an  inevitable  current  of  events. 

But,  the  more  we  test  the  importance  of  the  battle  which  is  our  pre- 
sent subject  of  consideration,  the  higher  we  shall  be  led  to  estimate  it ; 
and,  though  all  authentic  details  which  we  possess  of  its  circumstances 
and  its  heroes  are  but  meagre,  we  can  trace  enough  of  its  general 
character  to  make  us  watch  with  deep  interest  this  encounter  between 
the  rival  conquerors  of  the  decaying  Roman  Empire.  That  old  classic 
world,  the  history  of  which  occupies  so  large  a  portion  of  our  early 
studies,  lay,  in  the  eighth  centurr  of  our  era,  utterly  exanimate  and 
overthrown.  On  the  north  the  German,  on  the  south  the  Arab  was 
rending  away  its  provinces.  At  last  the  spoilers  encountered  one  an* 
other,  each  striving  for  the  full  mastery  of  the  prey.  Their  conflict 
brings  back  upon  the  memory  the  old  Homeric  simile,  where  the  strife 
of  Hector  and  Patroclus  over  the  dead  body  of  Cebriones  is  compared 
to  the  combat  of  two  lions,  that  in  their  hate  and  hunger  fight  together 
on  the  mountain-tops  over  the  carcass  of  a  slaughtered  stag ;  and  the 
reluctant  yielding  of  the  Saracen  power  to  the  superior  might  of  the 

*  History  of  the  kte  Bomaa  Coounoaweslth,  vol.  ii.  p.  317. 
t  Middle  Agw,  vol.  i.  p.  8,  note. 


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626        THE  SIX  DECISIVE  BATTLES  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Northern  warriors  may  not  inaptly  recal  tboae  other  lines  of  tiie  sane 
book  of  the  Iliad,  where^the  downfedl  of  Patrodus  beneath  Hector  is 
likened  to  the  forced  yielding  of  the  panting  and  exhausted  wild-boar, 
that  had  long  and  furiously  fought  with  a  superior  beast  of  prey  for 
the  possession  of  the  scanty  fountain  among  the  rocks,  at  which  each 
burned  to  drink.* 

Although  three  centuries  had  passed  away  since  the  Germanic  con- 
querors of  Rome  had  crossed  the  Rhine  never  to  repass  that  frontier 
stream,  no  settled  system  of  institutions  or  government,  no  amalgama- 
tion of  the  various  races  into  one  people,  no  uniformity  of  language 
or  habits  had  been  established  in  the  country  at  the  time  when 
Charles  Martel  was  called  on  to  repel  the  menacing  tide  of  Saracenic 
invasion  from  the  South.  €kul  was  not  yet  France.  In  that,  as  in 
other  provinces  of  the  Roman  empire  of  the  West,  the  dominion  of 
the  Caesars  had  been  shattered  as  early  as  the  fifth  century,  and 
barbaric  kingdoms  and  principalities  had  promptly  arisen  on  the  ruins 
of  the  Roman  power.  But  few  of  these  had  any  permanency,  and 
none  of  them  consolidated  the  rest,  or  any  considerable  number  of 
the  rest,  into  one  coherent  and  organised  civil  and  political  society. 
The  great  bulk  of  the  population  still  consisted  of  the  conquered  pro- 
vincials, that  is  to  say,  of  Romanised  Celts,  of  a  GhdUc  race  which  had 
long  been  under  the  dominion  of  the  Ciesars,  and  had  acquired,  toge- 
ther with  no  slight  infusion  of  Roman  blood,  the  language,  the  litera- 
ture, the  laws,  and  the  civilization  of  Latium.  Among  these,  and 
dominant  over  them,  roved  or  dwelt  the  German  victors :  some  retain- 
ing nearly  all  the  rude  independence  of  their  primitive  national  cha- 
racter ;  others,  softened  ana  disciplined  by  the  aspect  and  contact  of 
the  manners  and  insitutions  of  civilised  life.  For  it  is  to  be  hotu  in 
mind,  that  the  Roman  empire  in  the  west  was  not  crushed  by  any 
sudden  avalanche  of  barbaric  invasion.  The  German  conquerors  came 
across  the  Rhine  not  in  enormous  hosts,  but  in  bands  of  a  few  thou- 
sand warriors  at  a  time.  The  conquest  of  a  province  was  the  result 
of  an  infinite  series  of  partial  local  invasions,  carried  on  by  little  armies 
of  this  description.  The  victorious  warriors  either  retired  with  their 
booty,  or  fixea  themselves  in  the  invaded  district,  taking  care  to  keep 
sufficientlv  concentrated  for  militarv  purposes,  and  ever  r^tdy  for 
some  fresh  foray,  either  aeainst  a  rival  Teutonic  band  or  some  hi- 
therto unassaiied  city  of  tne  provincials.  Gradually,  however,  the 
conquerors  acquired  a  desire  for  permanent  landed  possessions.  They 
lost  somewhat  of  the  restless  thirst  for  novelty  and  adventure  whicn 
had  first  made  them  throng  beneath  the  banner  of  the  boldest  cap- 
tains of  their  tribe,  and  leave  their  native  forests  for  a  roving  military 
life  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhine.  They  were  converted  to  the  Chris- 
tian faith,  and  gave  up  with  their  old  creed  much  of  the  coarse  ferocity 
which  must  have  been  fostered  in  the  spirits  of  the  ancient  warriors 
of  the  north  by  a  mythology  which  promised,  as  the  reward  of  the 


*  **  Ami/  «if ,  ^ti^ivfinrnv, 


II,  n.  756. 


lUkXk  r$  T*  <^d/MWM»r«  kirn  iUfJte^  iBiS^." 

//.  n.  82.T 


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NO,  V. — ^THE  BATTLB  OP  TOURS.  527 

harsve  on  earth,  an  eternal  series  of  fighting  and  drunkenness  in 
heaven. 

But>  although  these  and  other  civilizing  influences  operated  power- 
fully upon  the  Germans  in  Gaul,  and  although  the  Franks  (who  were 
originally  a  confederation  of  the  Teutonic  tribes  that  dwelt  between 
the  Rhine>  the  Maine^  and  the  Weser>)  established  a  decisive  superi- 
ority over  the  other  conquerors  of  the  province,  as  well  as  over  the  con- 
quered provincials,  the  country  long  remained  a  chaos  of  uncombined 
and  shifUng  elements.  The  early  princes  of  the  Merovingian  dynasty 
were  generally  occupied  in  wars  against  other  princes  of  their  house, 
occasioned  by  the  mquent  subdivisions  of  the  Frank  monarchy  ;  and 
the  ablest  and  best  of  them  had  found  all  their  energies  tasked  to  the 
utmost  to  defend  the  barrier  of  the  Rhine  against  the  pagan  Ger- 
mans who  strove  to  pass  that  river  and  gather  their  share  of  the  spoils 
of  the  empire. 

The  conquests  which  the  Saracens  effected  over  the  southern  and 
eastern  provinces  of  Rome  were  far  more  rapid  than  those  achieved  by 
the  Germans  in  the  north,  and  the  new  organizations  of  society  whicn 
the  Moslems  introduced  were  summarily  and  uniformly  enforced.  £x- 
actlv  a  century  iMttsed  between  the  death  of  Muhammed  and  the  date 
of  the  battle  of  Tours.  During  that  century  the  followers  of  the  Pro- 
phet had  torn  away  half  the  Roman  empire ;  besides  their  conquests 
over  Persia,  the  Saracens  had  overrun  Syria,  Egypt,  Africa,  and  Spain, 
in  an  unchequered  and  apparently  irresistible  career  of  victory.  Nor, 
at  the  commencement  of  ihe  eighth  century  of  our  era,  was  the  Mo- 
hammedan world  divided  against  itself,  as  it  subsequently  became.  AH 
these  vast  regions  obeyed  the  Caliph ;  throughout  them  all,  from  the 
Pyrenees  to  the  Oxus,  the  name  of  Mohammed  was  invoked  in  prayer, 
and  the  Koran  revered  as  the  book  of  the  law. 

It  was  under  one  of  their  ablest  and  most  renowned  commanders, 
with  a  veteran  army,  and  with  every  apparent  advantage  of  time, 
place,  and  circumstance,  that  the  Arabs  made  their  great  effort  at  the 
conquest  of  Europe  north  of  the  Pyrenees.  The  victorious  Moslem 
soldiery  in  Spain, 

**  A  ooantlen  multitode  ; 
Syrian,  Moor,  Saracen,  Greek  renegade, 
Penian,  and  Copt,  and  Tartar,  in  one  bond 
Of  erring  faith  conjoined — strong  in  the  youth 
And  heat  of  zeal — a  dreadful  brotherhood," 

were  eager  for  the  plunder  of  mwe  Christian  cities  and  shrines,  and 
full  of  fanatic  confidence  in  the  invincibility  of  their  arms. 

*'*'  Nor  were  the  chieft 
Of  victory  less  assured,  by  lon^  success 
Elate,  and  proud  of  that  o'envielming  strength 
Whidi,  surely  they  believed,  as  it  had  rolled 
Thus  hr  unonaek^d,  would  roU  victorious  on. 
Till,  like  the  Orient,  the  subjected  Weet 
Should  bow  in  reverence  at  Mahommed*s  name ; 
And  pilgrims  from  remotest  Arctic  shores 
Tread  with  rdigious  feet  the  burning  sands 
Of  Araby  and  Mecca's  stony  soiL" 

SouTHVT*a  Roderiek, 

It  is  not  only  by  the  modem  Christian  poet,  but  by  the  old  Arabian 
chroniclers  also,  that  these  feelings  of  ambition  and  arrogance  are  attri* 

VOL.  XXIII.  Q  Q 


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528        THE   SIX   DECISIVE  BATTLES   OP  THE  WORLD. 

bated  to  the  Moslems  who  had  overthrown  the  Visigoth  power  in 
Spain.  And  their  eager  expectations  of  new  wars  were  excited  to  the 
utmost  on  the  re-appointment  by  the  caliph  of  Abderrahman  Ibn  Ab- 
dillah  Alghafeki^  to  the  government  of  that  country,  A.i>.  729,  which 
restored  them  a  general  who  had  signalized  his  skill  and  prowess  during 
the  conquests  of  Africa  and  Spain,  whose  ready  valour  and  generosity 
had  made  him  the  idol  of  the  troops,  who  had  alreadybeen  engaged  in 
several  expeditions  into  Oaul,  so  as  to  be  well  acquainted  with  the 
national  character  and  tactics  of  the  Franks,  and  who  was  known  to 
thirst,  like  a  good  Moslem,  for  revenue  for  the  slaughter  of  some  de* 
tachments  of  the  True  Believers,  which  had  been  cut  off  on  the  north 
of  the  Pyrenees. 

In  addition  to  his  cardinal  military  virtues,  Abderrahman  is  de- 
scribed by  the  Arab  writers  as  a  model  of  integrity  and  justice*  The 
first  two  years  of  his  second  administration  in  Spain  were  occupied  in 
severe  reforms  of  the  abuses  which  under  his  predecessors  had  crept 
into  the  system  of  government,  and  in  extensive  preparations  for  his 
intended  conquest  of  OauL  Besides  the  troops  which  he  collected  from 
his  province,  ne  obtained  from  Africa  a  large  body  of  chosen  Berber 
cavalry,  officered  by  Arabs  of  proved  skill  and  valour ;  and  in  the  sum- 
mer of  732,  he  crossed  the  Pyrenees  at  the  head  of  an  army  which  some 
Arab  writers  rate  at  eighty  thousand  strong,  while  some  of  the  Chris- 
tian chroniclers  swell  its  numbers  to  many  hundreds  of  thousands  more* 
Probably  the  Arab  account  diminishes,  but  of  the  two  keeps  nearest  to 
the  truth.  It  was  from  this  formidable  host,  after  Eudes,  the  Count 
of  Acquitaine,  had  vainly  striven  to  check  it,  after  many  strong  cities 
had  fallen  before  it,  and  half  the  land  been  overrun,  that  Oaul  and 
Christendom  were  at  last  rescued  by  the  strong  arm  of  Prince  Charles, 
who  acquired  a  surname,*  like  that  of  the  war-god  of  his  forefathers* 
creed,  from  the  might  with  which  he  broke  and  shattered  his  enemies 
in  the  battle. 

The  Merovingian  kings  had  sunk  into  absolute  insignificance,  and 
had  become  mere  puppets  of  royalty  before  the  eighth  century*  Charles 
Martel,  like  his  fatner,  Pepin  Heristal,  was  Duke  of  the  Austrasian 
Franks,  the  bravest  and  most  thoroughly  Germanic  part  of  the  nation, 
and  exercised,  in  the  name  of  the  titular  king,  what  little  paramount 
authority  the  turbulent  minor  rulers  of  distncts  and  towns  could  be 
persuaded  or  compelled  to  acknowledge.  Engaged  with  his  national 
competitors  in  perpetual  conflicts  for  power,  and  in  more  serious  strug- 
gles for  safety  against  the  fierce  tribes  of  the  unconvertenl  Frisians, 
Bavarians,  Saxons,  and  Thuringians,  who  at  that  epoch  assail^  with 
peculiar  ferocity  the  Christianized  Germans  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Rhine,  Charles  Martel  added  experienced  skill  to  his  natural  couraee, 
and  he  had  also  formed  a  militia  of  veterans  among  the  Franks. 
Hallam  has  thrown  out  a  doubt  whether,  in  our  admiration  of  his 
victory  at  Tours,  we  do  not  judge  a  little  too  much  by  the  event, 
and  whether  there  was  not  rashness  in  his  risking  the  fate  of  France 
on  the  result  of  a  general  battle  with  the  invaoers.  But,  when  we 
remember  that  Charles  had  no  standing  army,  and  the  independent 
spirit  of  the  Frank  warriors  who  follow^  his  standard,  it  seems  most 
probable  that  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  adopt  the  cautious  policy  of 

*  Martel^The  Hammer.  See  the  Scandinavian  Sagas  for  an  account  of  the 
favourite  weapon  of  Thor. 


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NO.   V. — THE  BATTLE   OP   TOURS.  529 

watchine  the  invaders,  and  wearing  out  their  strength  by  delay.  So 
dreadfuland  so  wide-spread  were  the  rayaffes  of  the  Saracenic  light 
cairalry  throughout  Ghiul,  that  it  must  have  been  impossible  to  restrain 
for  any  length  of  time  the  indignant  ardour  of  the  Franks.  And,  even 
if  Charles  could  have  persuaded  his  men  to  look  tamely  on  while  the 
Arabs  stormed  more  towns  and  desolated  more  districts,  he  could  not 
have  kept  an  army  together  when  the  usual  period  of  a  military  expe- 
dition had  expired  If,  indeed,  the  Arab  account  of  the  disorganization 
of  the  Moslem  forces  be  correct,  the  battle  was  as  well-timed  on  the 
part  of  Charles,  as  it  was,  beyond  all  question,  well-fought. 

The  monkish  chroniclers,  from  whom  we  are  obliged  to  glean  a  nar- 
rative of  this  memorable  campaign,  bear  full  evidence  to  the  terror 
which  the  Saracen  invasion  inspired,  and  to  the  agony  of  that  great 
stru^le.  The  Saracens,  say  they,  and  their  King,  who  was  called 
Abdirames,  came  out  of  Spain,  with  all  their  wives,  and  their  children> 
and  their  substance,  in  such  great  multitudes  that  no  man  could  reckon, 
or  estimate  them.  They  brought  with  them  all  their  armour,  and  what- 
ever they  had,  as  if  they  were  thenceforth  always  to  dwell  in  Prance.* 

*^  Then  Abderrahman,  seeing  the  land  filled  with  the  multitude  of 
his  army,  pierces  through  the  mountains,  tramples  over  rough  and  level 
ground,  plunders  far  into  the  country  of  the  Franks,  and  smites  all 
with  the  sword,  insomuch  that  when  Eudo  came  to  battle  with  him  at 
the  river  Oaronne,  and  fled  before  him,  Qod  alone  knows  the  number 
of  the  slain.  Then  Abderrahman  pursued  af^er  Count  Eudo,  and 
while  he  strives  to  spoil  and  burn  the  holy  shrine  At  Tours,  he  en- 
counters the  chief  of  the  Austrasian  Franks,  Charles,  a  man  of  war 
from  his  youth  up,  to  whom  Eudo  had  sent  warning.  There  for  nearly 
seven  days  they  strive  intensely  and  at  last  they  set  themselves  in 
battle  array,  ana  the  nations  of  the  north  standing  firm  as  a  wall,  and 
impenetrable  as  a  zone  of  ice,  utterly  slay  the  Arabs  with  the  edge  of 
the  sword."+ 

The  European  writers  all  concur  in  speaking  of  the  fall  of  Abder- 
rahman as  one  of  the  principal  causes  of  the  defeat  of  the  Arabs ;  who, 
according  to  one  writer,  after  finding  that  their  leader  was  slain,  dis- 
persed in  the  night,  to  the  agreeable  surprise  of  the  Christians,  who 
expected  the  next  morning  to  see  them  issue  from  their  tents,  and  renew 
the  combat.  One  monkish  chronicler  puts  the  loss  of  the  Arabs  at 
375,000  men,  while  he  says  that  only  1,007  Christians  fell:— a  disparity 
of  loss  which  he  feels  bound  to  account  for  by  a  special  interposition  of 
Providence.  I  have  translated  above  some  of  the  most  spirited  pas- 
sages of  these  writers ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  collect  from  them  any- 
thing like  a  full  or  authentic  description  of  the  great  battle  itself,  or  of 
the  operations  which  preceded  and  followed  it. 

V  Though,  however,  we  may  have  cause  to  regret  the  mea^eness  and 
doubtful  character  of  these  narratives,  we  have  the  great  advantage  of 
being  able  to  compare  the  accounts  given  of  Abderrahman's  expedition 
by  the  national  writers  of  each  side.  This  is  a  benefit  which  the  in- 
quirer into  antiquity  so  seldom  can  obtain,  that  the  fact  of  possessing  it 

•  ♦*  Lots  iuArent  d'Espaigne  K  Sarrazins,  et  uu  leur  Roi  qui  avoit  nom  AbdU 
ramet,  et  ont  leur  fames  et  leur  enfans  et  toute  leur  subttanoe  en  si  gnuid  plenta 
que  nus  ne  le  prevdt  nombrer  ne  estimer :  tout  leur  harnois  et  quanques  il  avoient 
amenement  avec  entz,  aussi  oomme  si  iU  deusseut  toujours  raes  habiter  en  France." 

t  Tunc  Abdirrahman  multitudine  sul  exercitus  repletam  prospiciens  terram,  &c 
Script,  Geit,  Franc,  p.  786. 


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530       THE  SIX   DECISIVE  BATTLES  OP  THE    W^ORLD. 

In  the  case  of  the  battle  of  Tours  makes  us  think  the  historical  testi- 
mony respecting  that  great  event  more  certain  and  satisfactory  than  is 
the  case  in  many  other  Instances^  where  we  possess  abundant  details 
respecting  military  exploits^  but  where  those  details  come  to  us  from 
the  annalists  of  one  nation  only,  and  we  have,  consequently,  no  safe- 
guard against  the  exaggerations,  the  distortions,  and  the  fictiims  which 
national  vanity  has  so  often  put  forth  in  the  garb  and  under  the  title  of 
history.  The  Arabian  writers  who  recorded  the  conquests  and  wan  of 
their  countrymen  in  Spain,  have  narrated  also  the  expedition  into  Gaul 
of  their  great  Emir,  and  his  defeat  and  death  near  Tours,  in  battle  with 
the  host  of  the  Franks  under  King  Caldus,  the  name  into  which  they 
metamorphose  Charles  Martel.* 

They  tell  us  how  there  was  war  between  the  count  of  the  Fraakish 
frontier  and  the  Moslems,  and  how  the  count  gathered  t(«ether  all  his 
people,  and  fought  for  a  time  with  doubtful  success.  "  But/'  say  the 
Arabian  chroniclers,  ^  Abderrahman  drove  them  back ;  and  the  men 
of  Abderrahman  were  puffed  up  in  spirit  by  their  repeated  successes, 
and  they  were  full  of  trust  in  the  valour  and  the  practice  in  war  of 
their  Emir.  So  the>  Moslems  smote  their  enemies,  and  passed  the  river 
Garonne,  and  laid  waste  the  country,  and  took  captives  without  num- 
ber. And  that  army  went  through  all  places  like  a  desolating  storm* 
Prosperity  made  those  warriors  insatiable.  At  the  passage  of  the 
river,  Abderrahman  overthrew  the  count,  and  the  count  retired  into 
his  stronghold,  but  the  Moslems  fought  against  it,  and  entered  it  by 
force,  and  slew  the  count,  for  everything  gave  way  to  their  scyme- 
tars,  which  were  the  robbers  of  lives.  All  the  nations  of  the  Franks 
trembled  at  that  terrible  army,  and  they  betook  them  to  theirKing 
Caldus,  and  told  him  of  the  havock  made  by  the  Moslem  horsemen, 
and  how  they  rode  at  their  will  through  all  the  land  of  Narbonne, 
Toulouse,  and  Bourdeaux,  and  they  told  the  King  of  the  death  of  their 
count.  Then  the  King  bade  them  be  of  good  cheer,  and  offered  to 
aid  them.  And  in  the  1 14th  yearf  he  mounted  his  horse,  and  he 
took  with  him  a  host  that  could  not  be  numbered,  and  went  against 
the  Moslems.  And  he  came  upon  them  at  the  great  city  of  Tours. 
And  Abderrahman  and  other  prudent  cavaliers  saw  the  disorder  of 
the  Moslem  troops,  who  were  loaded  with  spoil ;  but  they  did  not 
venture  to  displease  the  soldiers  by  ordering  them  to  abandon  every- 
thing except  their  arms  and  war-horsefi.  And  Abderrahman  trusted 
in  the  valour  of  his  soldiers,  and  in  the  good  fortune  which  had  ever 
attended  him.  But  (the  Arab  writer  remarks)  such  defect  of  disci- 
pline always  is  fatal  to  armies.  So  Abderrahman  and  his  host  at- 
tacked Tours  to  gain  still  more  spoil,  and  they  fought  against  it  so 
fiercely  that  they  stormed  the  city  almost  before  the  eyes  of  the  army 
that  came  to  save  it ;  and  the  fury  and  the  cruelty  of  the  Moslems 
towards  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  was  like  the  fury  and  cruelty  of 
raging  tigers.     It  was  manifest,  adds  the  Arab,  that  God's  chastise- 

*  The  Arabian  chronicles  were  oompfled  and  translated  into  Spanish  by  Don 
Jose  Antonio  Conde,  in  his  <«Historia  de  la  Dominadon  de  los  Arabos  en  Espana," 
published  at  Madrid  in  1820.  Conde*s  plan,  which  I  have  endeavoured  to  foUow, 
was  to  presenre  both  the  style  and  spirit  of  his  oriental  authorities,  so  that  we  find 
in  his  pages  a  genuine  Saraoenic  narrative  of  the  wars  in  Western  Europe  between 
the  3lahometans  and  the  Christians. 

t  Of  the  Hegira. 


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NO.  V. — THE  BATTLE  OF  TOURS;         631 

ment  was  sure  to  follow  such  excesses ;  and  fortune  thereupon  turned 
her  back  upon  the  Moslems. 

Near  the  river  Owar*  the  two  great  hosts  of  the  two  languages  and 
the  two  creeds  were  set  in  array  against  each  other.  The  hearts  of 
Abderrahman,  his  captains^  and  his  men  were  filled  with  wrath  and 
pride,  and  the^  were  the  first  to  begin  the  fight.  The  Moslem  horse- 
men dashed  fierce  and  frequent  forward  against  the  battalions  of  the 
Frank^  who  resisted  manfully^  and  many  fell  dead  on  either  side  until 
the  goinff  down  of  the  sun.  Night  parted  the  two  armies ;  but  in  the 
grey  of  the  morning  the  Moslems  returned  to  the  battle.  Their  cava- 
liers had  soon  hewn  their  way  into  the  centre  of  the  Christian  host* 
But  many  of  the  Moslems  were  fearful  for  the  safety  of  the  spoil  which 
they  had  stored  in  their  tents,  and  a  fiilse  cry  arose  in  their  ranks  that 
some  of  the  enemy  were  plundering  the  camp :  whereupon  several 
squadrons  of  the  Moslem  horsemen  rode  ofiT  to  protect  their  tents.  But 
it  seemed  as  if  they  fled ;  and  all  the  host  was  troubled.  And  while 
Abdenrahman  strove  to  check  their  tumult,  and  to  lead  them  back  to 
battle,  the  warriors  of  the  Franks  came  around  him,  and  he  was  pierced 
through  with  many  spears,  so  that  he  died.  Then  all  the  host  ned  her 
fore  the  enemy,  and  many  died  in  the  flight.  This  deadly  defeat  of 
the  Moslems,  and  the  loss  of  the  great  leader  and  good  cavalier  Abder- 
rahman,  took  place  in  the  hundred  and  fifteenth  year." 

It  would  be  diflicult  to  expect  ^m  an  adversary  a  more  explicit 
confession  of  having  been  thoroughly  vanquished,  than  the  Arabs  here 
accord  to  the  Europeans.  The  points  on  which  their  narrative  differs 
from  those  of  the  Christians,— as  to  how  many  days  the  conflict  lasted, 
whether  the  assailed  city  was  actually  rescued  or  not,  and  the  like, — 
are  of  little  moment  compared  with  the  admitted  great  fact  that  there 
was  a  decisive  trial  of  strength  between  Frank  and  Saracen,  in  which 
the  former  conquered.  The  enduring  importance  of  the  battle  of 
Tours  in  the  eyes  of  the  Moslems,  is  attested  not  only  by  the  expres- 
sions of  **  the  deadly  battle"  and  "  the  disgraceful  overthrow,"  which 
their  writers  constantly  employ  when  referring  to  it,  but  also  by  the 
&ct,  that  no  more  serious  attempts  at  conquest  beyond  the  Pyrenees 
were  made  by  the  Saracens.  Charles  Martel,  and  his  son  and  grand- 
son, were  left  at  leisure  to  consolidate  and  extend  their  power.  The 
new  Christian  Roman  Empire  of  the  West,  which  the  genius  o£ 
Charlemagne  founded,  and  throughout  which  his  iron  will  imposed 
peace  on  the  old  anarchy  of  creeds  and  races,  did  not  indeed  retain 
Its  integrity  after  its  great  ruler's  death.  Fresh  troubles  came  over 
Europe ;  but  Christendom,  though  disunited,  was  safe.  The  progress 
of  civilization,  and  the  development  of  the  nationalities  and  eovernr 
ments  of  Modern  Europe,  from  that  time  forth,  went  forward  in  not 
uninterrupted,  but,  ultimately,  certain  career. 

*  ProUbly  the  Loire. 


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532 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  OP  L.E.L. 

WITH   A   POBTBAIT. 

Lbtitia  Elizabeth  Landon  was  born  on  the  14th  of  Aagust, 
1802,  at  No.  25,  Hans  Place,  Chelsea.  Her  ancestors,  early  in  the 
eighteenth  centunr,  possessed  a  landed  estate  at  Crednall,  in  Here- 
fordshire.  Sir  William  Landon,  Knt.,  had  been  a  gainer  by  the 
South  Sea  Bubble;  but  he  was  afterwards  unsuccessful  in  some 
speculations,  and  lost  nearly  the  whole  of  his  property.  One  of  his 
descendants  was  rector  of  Nursted  and  listed  in  Kent,  and  the  great- 
grandfather of  L.  £.  L.  A  tablet  erected  to  his  memory  in  the  chan- 
cel of  the  church  of  Tedstone  Delamere,  near  Bromyard,  Hereford- 
shire, bears  testimony  to  his  zeal  and  abilities.  His  son,  the  Rev, 
John  Landon,  was  presented  to  the  last-named  rectory  in  1749,  the 
duties  of  which  he  discharged  for  nearly  thirty-three  years.  He  had 
eight  children ;  the  eldest  of  whom,  John  Landon,  was  the  father  of 
the  subject  of  the  present  sketch.  Early  in  life  he  made  two  yoy- 
ages,  one  to  Jamaica,  and  another  to  Africa — to  that  quarter  of  the 
globe  on  the  western  shores  of  which  a  sad  catastrophe  was  one  day 
to  befal  his  most  gifted  daughter.  Subsequently  he  became  a  chief 
clerk  in  the  firm  of  Adair  and  Co.,  Army  Agents,  in  Pall  Mall,  and 
eyentually  succeeded  to  a  partnership  in  that  profitable  business.  He 
was  fond  of  agricultural  pursuits,  and  in  gratifying  his  fayourite  in- 
clhiation  was  a  loser  of  several  thousand  pounds.  In  the  reduced 
state  of  his  circumstances,  he  took  a  house  in  Old  Brompton,  near 
Gloucester  Lodge,  immediately  beyond  that  now  occupied  by  Jenny 
Lind. 

Mrs.  Landon  was  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Bishop,  and  lived  in  the 
closest  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Siddons.  Mrs.  Bishop,  who  was  of  noble 
descent,  was  most  strongly  attached  to  her  grand-daughter,  who 
resided  with  her  in  Sloane  Street  for  some  time  before  her  death. 

Miss  Landon  was  the  eldest  of  three  children.  Her  sister  lived 
only  to  the  age  of  thirteen.*  L.  E.  L.  when  six  years  old,  was 
placed  at  a  school  kept  by  Miss  Rowden,  afterwards  Countess  St. 
Quentin,  at  No.  22,  Hans  Place,  at  whose  establishment  Miss  Mit- 
ford  was  educated,  and  in  which  house  the  young  pupil  was  at  a 
later  period  to  spend  a  great  portion  of  her  days.  She  was,  how- 
ever, soon  removed  to  Trevor  Park,  East  Bamet,  where  her  cousin 
took  charge  of  her  education.  Her  family  seemed  to  have  stayed 
about  six  years  at  Trevor  Park,  whence,  in  her  thirteenth  year, 
they  returned  to  London,  which  she  could  never  again  quit  but 
with  regret;  for,  in  common  with  the  great  lexicographer  and 
Charles  Lamb,  she  cherished  the  strongest  attachment  to  town  habits 
and  associations. 

She  early  evinced  remarkable  quickness  of  understanding,  and 
possessed  a  most  retentive  memory.  Her  proficiency  was  astonish- 
ing in  everything  but  music  and  caligraphy.  The  use  of  the  pen, 
which  was  destined  to  give  so  much  to  the  world,  seemed  beset  by 
almost  insurmountable  obstacles.     Books  were  her  delight. 

*  The  Rev,  Whinington  Landon,  M.A.,  the  cherished  oompanion  of  her  child- 
hood, and  friend  in  maturer  years,  still  survives. 


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BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH   OF  L.  E.  L.  533 

Her  first  literary  efforts  consisted  of  the  adventures  of  Captain 
Landon,  her  cousin,  who  had  then  just  arrived  from  America ;  and 
she  was  in  the  habit  of  submitting  portions  of  them  to  her  family 
circle.  In  a  little  time  her  mind  took  a  bolder  flight ;  and  she  ven- 
tured to  show  some  poetical  effusions  to  the  well-known  editor  of  the 
'*  Literary  Gazette/'  who  was  not  slow  in  marking  his  appreciation 
of  her  genius.  Under  his  auspices,  at  first  a  few  occasional  scraps 
from  her  pen  made  their  appearance  in  the  columns  of  his  journal, 
under  the  signature  "  L."  Of  these,  probably  the  earliest  was  a 
piece  entitled  "  Rome/'  which  was  published  in  March  1820^  in  her 
eighteenth  year.  In  August,  1821,  appeared  her  first  work  *'  The 
Fate  of  Adelaide^  a  Swiss  Romantic  Tale,  and  other  Poems  /'  which, 
but  for  the  failure  of  her  publisher,  would  have  produced  her  fifty 
pounds.  If,  however,  she  suffered  pecuniary  disappointment  in  this 
instance^  she  obtained  what  was  dearer  to  her,  the  encomiums  of  the 
critics;  and  these  were  so  encouraging  that  she  was  inspired  to 
achieve  greater  and  increasing  triumphs.  Thenceforth  she  became 
for  several  years  a  constant  contributor  to  the  ''  Literary  Gazette/' 
in  which  her  magical  initials  first  appeared,  September  22,  1821. 
From  this  period  her  literary  career  was  most  active  and  brilliant. 
Besides  a  large  collection  of  minor  poems,  &c.,  she  published  '^  The 
Iroprovisatrice  "  in  1824 ;  "  The  Troubadour  "  in  1826  ;  "  The 
Golden  Violet"  in  1826 ;  "  The  Venetian  Bracelet "  in  1829.  Her 
'first  prose  work,  ''  Romance  and  Reality,"  which  we  are  glad  to  see 
now  forms  one  of  the  many  entertaining  volumes  of  "  The  Standard 
Novels  and  Romances/'  was  first  published  in  1830.  In  1831,  and 
the  seven  successive  years,  L.  E.  L.  edited  Fisher's  ''  Drawing-room 
Scrap-Book/'  In  1835  were  published  "  Francesca  Carrara, '  and 
"The  Vow  of  the  Peacock;'  and,  in  1836,  "Traits  and  Trials  of 
Early  Life,"  and  "  Ethel  Churchill."  During  this  period  she  also 
contributed  largely  to  periodicals  and  annuals,  and  edited  various 
illustrated  books.  Her  writings  are  characterized  by  that  true  test 
of  genius,  originality,  by  vividness  of  imagination,  by  considerable 
depth  of  feeling  and  penetration  into  the  workings  of  the  human 
heart.  In  facility  of  composition  she  has  been  rarely  equalled,  for  few 
writers  were  more  fascinated  with  the  genuine  love  of  authorship. 

The  personal  history  of  L.  E.  L.  partook  of  sorrows  as  well  as  joys. 
If  her  success  in  the  literary  world  gratified  the  natural  craving  of 
her  mind,  she  suffered  afflictions  by  the  loss  of  some  of  her  nearest 
relations ;  but,  worst  of  all,  her  gentle  spirit  was  made  to  feel  the 
most  poisonous  sh&fia  which  malevolence  can  direct  against  the 
honour  of  a  woman.  The  world  is  too  prone  to  believe  any  scandal- 
ous assertions  that  are  put  forward ;  and  the  reparation  it  makes  for 
its  false  opinions  is  often  tardy,  and  never  equal  to  the  injury  it  in- 
flicts. Let  us  hope  that  the  many  able  pens  which  have  borne  testi- 
mony to  Miss  Landon's  purity  and  worth  have  obtained  her  entire 
and  perfect  justification. 

On  the  7th  of  June,  1838,  L.  E.  L.  was  married  to  Mr.  George 
Maclean,  the  Governor  of  Cape  Coast,  at  St.  Mary's,  Bryanstone 
Square.  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  Bart  assisted  at  the  cere- 
mony, and  gave  away  the  bride.  On  the  5th  of  July  she  sailed  with 
her  husband  from  Fortsmouth,  and  on  the  15th  of  August  they 
landed  at  Cape  Coast.  Her  calamitous  fate,  only  a  few  months 
later,  is  well  known. 


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534  WHAT   IS  A  SIGH? 

On  the  15th  of  October  she  was  found  on  the  floor  of  her  own 
room,  dying,  with  a  bottle  of  pruasic  acid  in  her  hand.  The  painful 
mystery  that  shrouds  her  fatal  end  must  ever  remain  unexplained. 
There  is  no  evidence  on  record  to  show  that  her  married  life  was 
unhappy ;  on  the  contrary,  her  late  husband  stated,  on  oath,  that  no 
unkind  word  had  at  any  time  passed  between  them.  It  cannot  be 
proved  that  the  act  was  wilful  on  her  part ;  and  perhaps  the  best 
solution  that  can  be  offered  is,  that  it  was  the  result  of  accident. 

Thus  died,  in  her  thirty-sixth  year,  the  highly  gifted  being  who 
had  been  so  long  a  favourite  with  Uie  public  The  following  descrip- 
tion of  her  is  derived  firom  the  ''Life  and  Literary  RCTiains  of 
L.  £.  L.,  by  the  late  Laman  Blanchard." 

''  Her  hair  was  darkly  brown,  very  soft  and  beautiful,  and  always 
tastefully  arranged ;  her  figure  slight,  but  well-formed  and  grace- 
ful; her  feet  small,  but  her  hands  especially  so,  and  fanlSessly 
white,  and  finely-shaped ;  her  fingers  were  fairy  fingers ;  her  ears 
also  were  observably  little.  Her  uce,  though  not  regular  in  any 
feature,  became  beautiful  by  expression ;  every  flash  of  thought, 
every  change  and  colour  of  feeling,  lightened  over  it  as  she  spoke, 
when  she  spoke  earnestly.  The  forehead  was  not  high,  but  broad 
and  full ;  the  eyes  had  no  overpowering  brilliancy,  but  their  clear 
intellectual  light  penetrated  by  its  exquisite  softness;  her  mouth 
was  not  less  marked  by  character ;  and,  besides  the  glorious  faculty 
of  uttering  the  peafls  and  diamonds  of  fancy  and  wit,  knew  how  to 
express  scorn,  or  anger,  or  pride,  as  well  as  it  knew  how  to  smile 
winningly,  or  to  pour  forth  those  short,  quick,  ringing  laughs, 
which,  not  even  excepting  her  bon-mols  and  aphorisms,  were  the 
most  delightful  things  thnt  issued  from  it." 


WHAT  IS  A  SIGH  ? 


It  is  the  sound 
Raised  by  the  sweeping  of  an  angel's  wing. 
As  through  the  air 
It  bears  a  prayer 
Of  the  soul's  uttering  * 

It  is  the  sweet 
M alodious  echo  of  some  thrilHng  thought. 
Retold  by  sidnsis 
Unto  gladness, 
Which  memory  hath  brought ! 

It  is  the  hymn 
Breathed  ever  by  the  votaries  of  love, 
Whose  dulddenoe. 
Soft  and  intense. 
Soars  dreamily  above  ! 

It  is  the  sign 
Of  Earth's  fraternity.     The  only  tie 
That  links  us  all. 
Both  great  and  small. 
In  common  sympathy  I 

It  is  the  heart 
Issuing  from  its  prison  house  of  clay. 
Perchance  gUdiy, 
Peroikance  sadly, 
Wending  on  iu  way.  W.  R.  C. 


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THK  LEGEND  OF  FAIR  AGNES. 


FBOM    THE    DANISH    OF    OCHLEN8CULAOER. 


Alone,  alone,  fair  Agnes  sits  upon  the  wild  sea-shore  ; 

She  marks  the  dancing  sun -bright  foam,  she  lists  the  billows  roar. 

The  salt  wav^es  meet  beneath  her  feet,  the  spray  around  her  flies, — > 
When,  lo  !  she  sees  a  merman  from  the  ocean  depths  arise. 

A  coat  of  mail  enclosed  his  form,  of  scales  all  silver-bright. 
Glistening  beneath  the  setting  sun's  effulgent,  rosy  light. 

A  spear,  pluck*d  from  the  coral  beds,  his  graceful  arm  did  wield. 
Brown,  arched,  and  strong,  a  tortoise-sheU  supplied  the  place  of  shield. 

His  face  was  fair,  and  soft  his  hair,  bold  hero  of  the  main, — 
Like  music  rung,  the  words  he  sung,  a  sweet  alluring  strain. 

**  Thou  fairest  of  earthly  dwellers  !  my  song  is  sung  to  thee, 

Wilt  thou  hear  of  the  nameless  wonders  that  hide  beneath  the  sea  ?** 

She  answered,  ^*  Nay,  thou  merman  gay  !  that  sing'st  so  blithe  and  well, 
1  'd  rather  know  what  weal  or  woe  awaits  me, — can'st  thou  tell  ? 

**  What  gallant  youth  shall  plight  his  troth,  and  woo  me  for  his  bride. 
To  quit  my  home  with  him  to  roam,  whatever  fate  betide  ?** 

<'  Oh,  hear  me,  Agnee,  hear  my  song,  despise  not  thou  my  vows ! 
Be  thou  my  queen, — in  me,  I  ween,  thou  *lt  find  a  loving  spouse. 

'^  Below  the  sea  is  decked  for  thee,  a  palace  fair  and  light. 

Pearls  gem  th«  floors,  both  walls  and  doors  are  framed  of  crystal  bright. 

^  A  pearly  car  shall  bear  thee  far,  o'er  ocean's  depths  to  ride, 
Full  swiiUy  thro'  the  watery  fields  thy  chariot  shall  glide ; 

''  Within  my  bowers,  bloom  fragrant  flowers,  of  every  clime  and  hue, 
So  gently  fluttering  to  and  fro,  amid  the  waters  blue. 

^<  Then  plunge  with  me  beneath  the  sea,  my  regal  state  to  share. 
What  earth-bom  lover  can'st  thou  find  who  may  with  me  compare  ?" 

Her  blue  eyes  glistened  while  she  listened,  oh,  maiden  fair  and  frail ! 
Her  cottage  home  seemed  dull  beside  the  merman's  flattering  tale. 

*<  If  they  be  true,  thou  merman  bold,  the  words  thou  say'st  to  me, 
I  'U  gladly  leave  the  world  above  to  reign  beneath  the  sea." 

Her  hand  she  gave,  he  through  the  wave,  fair  Agnes  safely  bore ; 
For  eight  long  years  she  ne'er  again  beheld  her  native  shore. 


SECOND    PART. 

Fair  Agnes  sits  within  her  bower,  all  weary  and  alone  ; 

She  hears  the  sounds  that  call  to  prayer,  the  church-bells'  distant  tone. 

Of  sad  full  memories,  she  seeks  her  husband,  weeping  sore, 

*•*•  Oh !  let  me  worship  God  within  my  village  church  once  more !" 

— <^  Then  go,  but,  Agnes,  hear  me  I  make  not  too  long  a  stay, 
Return  before  the  rising  sun  shall  light  another  day. 

VOL.    XXIII.  R    R 


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536  THE   LEGEND   OF    FAIR   AGNES. 

«(  Forget  not  thou,  thine  early  vow,  which  thou  didst  pledge  to  me  ; 
Forget  not  our  young  children,  whose  life  depends  on  thee/' 

Fair  Agnes  treads  the  shore  again,  she  sees  the  bright  blue  sky. 
The  warm  sun  streams  his  golden  beams  upon  her  from  on  high. 

Fair  Agnes  seeks  the  friend  she  loved,  who  nursed  her  in  her  youth, 
**  Oh,  mother  dear !  know*st  thou  not  me  ?    I  am  thy  child  in  truth  !** 

All  tum*d  away ;  ^^  We  know  thee  not,  no  Christian  dame  art  thou, 
<^  Back  to  thy  demon  lover  to  whom  is  pledged  thy  vow  !'* 

Fair  Agnes  went  into  the  church,  the  pictures  hung  within, 
Tum*d  round  unto  the  walls — alas !  they  knew  her  sin. 

She  trembled  sore,  her  hope  was  o*er,  she  dared  not  kneel  to  pray ; 
Lest  her  despair  Jiould  taint  the  air,  the  sinner  went  her  way. 

*Twas  evening  hour,  both  tree  and  flower  with  sparkling  dewdrops  shone, 
When  once  again,  towards  the  main,  fair  Agnes  walk'd  alone. 

Clasping  her  hands,  she  weeping  stands,  that  miserable  wife ! 
"  Lord,  pity  me,  mine  anguish  see,  and  take  this  wretched  life  !** 

Fainting,  she  sunk  upon  the  grass,  among  the  violets  blue. 
Believe  my  tale,  those  flow'rets  pale,  grew  paler  still  in  hue. 

The  wild  birds  fluttering  o*er  her  head,  sing  sadly  as  they  fly, 
**  Alas  I  for  thee,  the  fair  Agnes  !  thine  hour  is  come  to  die  !** 

When  darkness  gathered  o*er  the  shore,  her  eyes  had  lost  their  light, 
Her  trembling  bosom  throbbed  no  more,  her  soul  had  taken  flight. 

The  crested  billows  onward  roll  with  murmurs  soft  and  low. 
They  gently  bear  the  corpse  so  fair  unto  the  depths  below. 

Beneath  the  tide  in  beauty^  pride,  three  days  her  corpse  had  lain. 
The  restless  waves  then  bore  her  forth  upon  the  sand  again. 

A  shepherd-boy  discoverM  her,  whilst  roaming  on  the  shore. 
Her  face  was  calm,  no  fear  of  harm  disturbed  the  smile  it  wore. 

Deep  in  the  sand  beneath  a  stone,  her  wearied  limbs  repose ; 
Her  troubled  spirit  hath  found  rest  from  all  its  earthly  woes. 

The  stone  is  salt  and  wet  they  say,  both  mom  and  even  tide. 
For  here  the  merman  weeps  each  day  in  sorrow  for  his  bride. 


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537 
GAETANO  DONIZETTI. 

WITH  A  POBTRAIT. 

The  good  town  of  Bergamo,  incomparable  among  the  picturesque 
cities  of  northern  Italy,  in  right  of  the  view  across  the  plain  from  its 
upper  town^  liveliest,  too,  among  the  markets  of  Lombardy,  in  right 
of  its  great  fairs ;  holds,  also,  a  distinguished  place  in  the  records  of 
operatic  art  It  has  given  to  the  Italian  theatre  some  of  its  most 
famous  personages.  Not  to  speak  of  Harlequin  (type  and  prototype  of 
the  Scapins  and  Figaros  since  introduced  in  modern  comedy),  who 
was  a  Bergamask,  this  same  magnificent  town,  though  remarkable  for 
the  cacophony  of  its  dialect  and  the  harsh  tones  of  voice  in  which  its 
inhabitants  bargain  or  scold,  has  been  fruitful  of  great  singers.  As  the 
last  and  greatest  among  these  we  may  name  Rubini,  whose  intense 
feeling  and  profound  skill  have  founded  a  school  and  a  tradition  among 
artists,  no  less  than  created  a  passing  frenzy  among  the  European  pub- 
lic* From  Bergamo,  too,  comes  Signor  Piatti,  one  of  the  best  con- 
temporary violoncellists.  But  insomuch  as  the  creative  faculty  exer- 
cises a  longer-lived  and  a  wider  influence  than  any  executive  per- 
fection, the  musical  illustration,  by  which  Bergamo  will,  perhaps,  be 
the  longest  known,  is  to  be  found  in  the  operas  of  Gaetano  Donizetti: 
— who  was  born  there  in  the  year  1797,  and  whose  body  died  there 
on  the  8th  of  April  last.  His  mind  had  died  within  the  body  some 
years  earlier. 

No  very  precise  record  has  reached  lis  of  Donizetti's  parentage. 
His  education  began  at  the  Lyceum  of  Bergamo,  under  the  guidance 
of  Simon  Mayer.  This  master,  who  is  best  recollected  as  the  com- 
poser of  '<  IViedea,"  because  Pasta  sang  in  that  opera,  was  possessed 
of  little  genius,  being  precisely  one  of  those  eclectic  writers  whose 
appearance  neither  forwards  nor  retards  the  progress  of  Art.  But 
he  must  have  been  valuable  as.  a  teacher,  from  the  unimpeachable 
correctness  which  marks  all  that  bears  his  signature  and  this  very 
absence  of  individuality.  An  Albrechtsberger  "  turns  out"  much  better 
pupils  than  a  Beethoven ;  a  Reicha  than  a  Rossini.  And  we  are 
accordingly  told,  that  the  young  Donizetti,  who  passed  from  the 
hands  of  Mayer  into  the  no  less  estimable  ones  of  Padre  Mattei,  of 
Bologna,  (a  learned  contrapuntist,)  and  Signor  Pilotti,  another  pro- 
fessor there,  was  early  able  to  produce  *'  overtures,  violin  quartettes^ 
(flimsy  enough  it  may  be  presumed,)  cantatas^  and  churcn  music" 
For  again,  it  may  be  observed,  that  the  sound  tenets  of  old  musical 
instruction  in  composition,  professed  to  enable  the  tt^o  to  turn  his 
hand  to  anything.  The  subdivision  of  occupation,  which  is  compara- 
tively of  a  modern  date,  must  be  taken,  wheresoever  it  occurs,  as  a 
sign  of  incompleteness  or  imperfect  training. 

The  boy's  estro  is  from  the  first  said  to  have  been  fluent  rather  than 
brilliant  or  characteristic ; — to  have  shown  itself  in  construction  more 
signally  than  in  invention.  A  French  journal  tells  us  that  shortly 
af^r  his  return  from  Bolosna  to  Bergamo  in  1816,  the  young  Doni- 
zetti was  **  taken  for  a  solaier,**  and  was  only  able  to  deliver  himself 
from  military  thraldom  by  gaining  a  success  in  his  own  vocation. 
This  he  accomplished  in  1818,  by  the  production  of  his  first  Opera, 

VOL.  xxiii:  8  8 


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538  GAETANO  DONIZETTI. 

<<  Enrico  di  Borgogna,"  at  Venice.  His  biographers,  however,  assure 
us,  that,  of  the  nineteen  (?)  operas  which  Doniisetti  produced  within 
the  next  ten  years,  only  one,  "  Zoraide  in  Granata,"  sung  at  Rome  in 
1822  by  Donzeili,  and  the  sbters  Mombelli,  was  admitted  to  have 
made  '*  a  hit."  There  is  no  need,  then,  to  enumerate  them ;  enough 
to  say  that  scattered  pieces  from  **  Olivo  e  Pasquale,'*  have  been  for- 
merly sung  in  our  concert  rooms.  A  somewhat  washy  duet,  <*  Senza 
tanti  complimenti,"  from  <<  U  Borgomastro  di  Saardam,"  is  still  in 
request  among  our  mediocre  singers  of  Italian.  Moreover,  a  year  or 
two  since,  **L'Ajo  nell  Irobairazzo"  was  tried  at  her  Majesty's 
Theatre ;  but  the  music  was  not  original  enough  to  induce  the  public 
to  endure  a  story  full  of  the  most  puerile  buffooneries,  in  spite  of  the 
best  efforts  of  Lablache  to  give  them  life  and  character. 

It  might  have  seemed,  then,  that  afler  ten  years'  experiment  Doni- 
zetti's place  was  irretrievably  fixed  among  the  mediocrities  who  manu- 
facture poor  music  for  the  second  rate  theatres  of  Italv — to  meet  the 
popular  craving  for  perpetual  variety,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  Such, 
however,  was  not  the  case.  Something  like  originality  and  indivi- 
duality (marking  that  he  had  come  to  years  of  musical  discretion,) 
broke  out  in  his  twenty-first  Opera,  <'  L'Esule  di  Roma,**  which  was 
given  at  Naples  in  the  year  1828,  with  Mile.  Tosi,  MM.  Winter  and 
Lablache,  in  the  principal  parts.  Some  of  our  amateurs  may  recol- 
lect it  as  the  work  with  which  Mr.  Monck  Mason  opened  his  disas- 
trous, but  enterprising  one  season  of  opera  management,  that  of 
1832.  Such  will  reciul  the  terzetto,  in  which  a  certain  novelty  of 
structure  is  evident.  The  next  work  in  order  which  has  made  **  any 
stand"  ^as  the  phrase  runs  in  the  green-room)  was  the  '^Regina  di 
Golconda,"  an  Opera  containing  no  music  to  compare  with  Berton's 
sprightly  melodies  to  the  original  ^*  Aline,"  but  to  which  such  canto- 
trici  of  Italy  as  have  a  touch  of  the  Dugazon  in  them  still  recur,  from 
time  to  time.  And  that  the  maettro  was  looked  to  as  prommng 
is  evident  by  his  being  commissioned  to  write  for  Pasta : — for  whom 
his  thirty-second  Opera,  the  "  Anna  Bolena,"  was  produced  at  Milan 
in  1881. 

The  work  is  performed  stiH,  when  any  prima  donna  appears  who 
is  strong  enough  to  contend  for  Pasta's  succession.  Though  it  is  not 
clear  of  the  usual  amount  of  platitude  warranted,  nay,  courted,  by 
Italian  audiences ;  though  it  be  full  of  the  rhythms  of  Rossini,  it  has 
still  touches  which  assert  the  indivkluality  of  its  composer;  and 
these,  it  may  be  noted,  occur  in  the  critical  places.  Tlie  duet,  in  the 
second  act,  betwixt  the  Queen  and  her  rival,  may  be  mentioned  in 
proof;  as  also  the  final  bravura  <<Coppia  iniqua,'* — which,  though 
merely  written  as  an  air  of  display,  is  still  fiill  of  deep  tragical  dra- 
matic passion ;  tbe  last  frenzy  of  a  breaking  heart  I 

From  this  time  forward  the  place  of  Donizetti  was  assured  as 
next  in  favour  to  that  of  the  more  sympathetic  Bellini,  and  superior 
to  that  held  by  the  less  impulsive  and  more  scholastic  Mercadante. 
Thirty-three  Operas  followed  the  **  Anna  Bdena,"  and  they  gradually 
became  better  m  staple,  more  original,  and  more  popular.  To  name 
them  one  by  one  would  be  tedious.  It  will  suffice  to  touch  lightly 
upon  those  which  still  live  in  the  Opera  Houses  of  Europe. 

There  is  ^^L'Elisir," — from  the  first  to  the  last  note  a  spontaneous 
utterance  of  pretty  music,  weakest  where  Rossini  would  have  been 


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QAETANO   DONIZETTI.  589 

Strongest^  in  the  part  in  the  charlatan.  Dr.  Dulcamara^  whose  grand 
<ma,  even  a  Lablache  cannot  rescue  from  insipidity.  There  are 
**  Parisina,"  "  Torquato  Tasso,"  and  "  Belisario,"  none  of  which  stand 
beyond  a  chance  of  being  revived  by  the  dramatic  singers  of  the  new 
school.  With  them  also  may  be  mentioned  <<  Gemma  di  Vergyy" 
**  Roberto  Devereux/'  and  (of  a  later  date)  **  Maria  de  Rohan/' — the 
last  never  to  be  forgotten  in  England,  because  of  the  magnificent 
tragic  acting  of  Ronconi.  Better  music  than  in  any  of  the  above  will 
be  found  in  **  Lucrezia  Borgia/'  and  a  more  taking  story.  One  rich 
concerted  piece  and  a  notable  ^nale  for  the  tenor  in  the  ^'  Lucia  di 
Lammermoor/'  have  won  for  this  Opera  the  most  universal  popularity 
gained  by  any  of  its  master's  works.  According  to  our  own  fancy, 
Donizetti  has  never  written  anything  of  a  higher  order,  as  regards 
originality  and  picturesqueness,  than  the  night  scene  in  Venice, 
which  makes  up  the  second  act  of  "  Marino  Faliero,"  including  the 
Barcarolle  and  the  grand  aria  which  no  singer  has  dared  to  touch 
since  Rubini  laid  it  down.  We  there  find,  for  the  first  time,  an  entire 
emancipation  from  those  forms  and  humours  originated  by  Rossini 
(or,  to  be  exact,  perfected  by  him  from  indications  given  by  Paer) 
by  the  imitation  of  which  all  the  modern  Italians  (save  Bellini)  have 
commenced  their  career  as  dramatic  composers. 

<<  Marino  Faliero "  was  written  expressly  for  that  incomparable 
company,  including  Mademoiselle  Grisi,  Signori  Rubini,  Tamburini, 
Lablache,  and  IvanofT,  which  was  assembled  in  1835  in  Paris.  For 
the  same  year,  and  the  same  artists,  Bellini's  **  I  Puritan!  "  was  com- 
posed :  and  since  it  is  a  certain  theatrical  law,  that  two  great  stage  suc- 
cesses cannot  come  together ;  and  since  the  latter  work  made  the/urorey 
the  former  was,  by  mathematical  necessitv,  sure  to  be  comparatively 
disregarded.  But  after  poor  Bellini's  untimely  death,  which  followed 
hard  upon  his  triumph,  it  became  evident  to  the  impre$ariiy  that  there 
was  no  Italian  composer  who  could*  please  (most  especially  on  our 
side  of  the  Alps)  so  certainly  as  Donizetti.  Accordingly  he  was 
called  to  Vienna,  and  there  wrote  the  ''  Linda  di  Chamouny,"  which 
became  so  popular  that  its  composer  was  rewarded  by  being  nominated 
to  a  lucrative  court  appointment.  The  management  of  the  Grand 
Opera  of  Paris,  too,  disappointed  of  a  new  work  by  Meverbeer,  and  in 
distress  for  music  more  vocal  and  pleasing  than  the  clever  head-cofn- 
binoHons  of  M.  Halevy, — invited  the  universal  maestro  to  write  for 
that  magnificent  theatre.  Unlike  most  of  his  predecessors,  Donizetti 
seems  neither  to  have  hesitated,  nor  to  have  taken  any  extraordinary 
amount  of  pains  or  preparation  on  the  occasion.  He  came  as  re- 
quested, but  after  his  appearance  in  Paris  in  1840,  we  find  his  name 
within  a  curiously  short  space  of  time  to  '*  Les  Martyrs,"  and  "  Dom 
Sebastian/' — two  grand  five-act  Operas,  both  of  which  failed — (though 
still  given  in  Germany  and  Italy) ;  and  to  '<  La  Favorite/'  t^/bur'act 
Opera,  (written  for  Madame  Stoltz,  MM.  Duprez  and  Baroilhet) 
which  maybe  regarded  as  his  best  serious  work;  to  <'La  Fille  du 
Regiment,"  for  L'Opera  Comique,  in  which  Mademoiselle  Borghese 
made  her  dSbuL  The  last  Opera  and  the  lady  were  found  wanting  by 
that  most  fastidious  company  of  judges,  a  Parisian  audience.  Every- 
where else,  however,  the  gaiety  of  the  music  (containing  the  most  fresh 
and  gaiUard  of  Donizetti's  sprightly  inspirations)  has  placed  it  in  the 
first  rank  of  favour  among  comic  Operas.  We  surely  need  not  remind 

S  8   2 


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640  GABTANO   DONIZETTI. 

the  Londoner  how  it  has  furnished  her  most  delightful  and  charac- 
teristic personation  to  the  most  famous  vocalist  of  our  day — Made- 
moiselle Jenny  Lind. 

It  might  have  been  fancied  that  the  calls  on  the  maestro's  inven- 
tion from  every  corner  of  Europe,  would  appear  to  have  distanced 
the  powers  of  the  most^a  presto  writer.  But  Donizetti  seems  to  have 
been  almost  fabulously  industrious,  and  ready  to  the  moment. 
Apocryphal  tales  are  told  of  his  having  scored  an  Opera  in  thirty  hourst 
-—of  his  having,  at  an  earlier  period,  composed  a  '*  Rosamunda  "  in 
a  single  night,  under  the  pressure  of  banditti,  by  whom  he  was  cap- 
tured. But  these  are,  probably,  mere  tales.  We  believe  it  is  more 
certain  that  "  Don  Pasquale,"  one  of  the  blithest  as  well  as  one  of 
the  last  of  his  works,  was  commenced  and  completed  for  the  Italians 
in  Paris  within  three  weeks.  This,  in  itself,  would  be  amazing 
enough;  but  Donizetti  spared  himself  in  no  respect.  He  seems 
never  to  have  retired  from  the  world  to  work.  On  the  contrary,  being 
a  cheerful,  fascinating  man, — he  not  only  chose  to  write  music  as  fast 
as  other  men  can  talk  about  it,  but  to  fill  up  every  leisure  second 
with  all  the  wasting  pleasures  of  a  viveur.  To  these,  it  is  understood, 
he  addicted  himself  with  as  much  impetuosity  as  to  the  supply  of  the 
theatres  of  Europe. 

There  is,  however,  a  limit  to  fertility  and  revelry,  even  so  long  and 
joyously  maintained  as  his:  Donizetti's  sixty-five  Operas  (to  say 
nothing  of  masses,  misereres,  chamber-compositions,  &c.,  unnumbered 
and  uncared  for,)  could  not  be  thrown  off  without  a  heavy  score  being 
run  up  against  him ;  and  to  this  the  strain  and  drain  of  a  life  of 
Parisian  gallantry  and  dissipation  added  a  momentous  item. 

It  is  four  or  five  years  since  his  health  began  to  give  way  in  the  most 
painful  form  of  illness,  loss  of  memory  and  intellect.  Life  was  spent, 
and  there  was  no  calling  it  back.  Retreat  and  rest  were  tried,  at  first 
by  his  own  will  and  pleasure,  Init,  ere  long,  by  the  necessary  super- 
vision of  the  maestro's  relatives.  It  was  too  late — the  composer  sunk 
into  imbecile  and  hopeless  melancholy.  For  a  time  he  was  retained 
in  a  maison  de  saniS  at  Paris,  without  the  slightest  remission  of  any 
painful  symptom ;  thence  he  was  transferred,  in  the  course  of  last 
year,  to  his  native  town,  in  the  hope  that  a  more  genial  climate  and 
the  presence  of  familiar  objects  might  work  the  charm  of  revival.  But 
this  expedient  also  failed ;  life  was  spent,  and,  as  has  been  said,  ex- 
pired not  many  weeks  since.  It  is  idle,  perhaps,  to  say  that,  under  a 
wiser  ordinance  of  his  life  and  energies,  the  composer  might  have  pur- 
sued his  career  of  invention,  popularity,  and  enjoyment  for  another 
score  of  years. 

A  good  deal  of  foolish  criticism  and  wholesale  contempt  have  been 
thrown  on  the  Operas  of  Donizetti  by  those  who,  by  way  of  vindi- 
cating their  knowledge,  think  it  incumbent  on  them  to  mistrust  all 
popularity,  and  to  frown  upon  everything  that  does  not  '^  smell  of  the 
lamp.** 

Generally,  indeed,  imperfect  reasoning  and  foolish  assumption  have 
been  more  liberally  based  and  vented  on  nothing  than  the  subject  of 
**  fertility."  Cavillers  have  too  pedantically  assumed  that,  by  restric- 
tion, concentration,  and  similar  trammelling  processes,  creative  genius 
could  be  forced  into  becoming  something  far  more  precious  than  it 
may  have  originally  been.     <<  Facility'' — doomed  by  the  epithet^  al 


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GAETANO   DONIZETTI.  541 

— ^has  been  too  largely  confounded  with  "  feebleness.**  Now,  in  Mu- 
sic at  least,  this  is  a  huge  and  untenable  fallacy.  Dangerous  though 
it  seem  to  afford  encouragement  to  idleness,  to  presumption,  to  inven- 
tion by  chance,  to  a  spirit  of  money- making  cupidity,  the  perpetua- 
tion of  falsehood  is  yet  more  dangerous :— ^and  there  are  few  falsehoods 
more  complete  than  the  reproach  conveyed  in  the  above  assertions. 
With  very  few  exceptions,  all  the  great  musical  composers  have  been 
fertile  when  once  taught, — and  capable  of  writing  with  as  much  rapid- 
ity as  ease.  Bach,  Handel  (whose  *<  Israel"  was  completed  in  three 
weeks,)  Haydn  (more  of  whose  compositions  are  lost  than  live),  Mozart, 
— all  men  remarkable  as  discoverers  and  renowned  as  classics — held 
the  pens  of  ready  writers.  Rossini's  *'  II  Barbiere,"  again,  which  has 
now  kept  the  stage  for  two-and- thirty  years,  was  the  work  of  thirteen 
days:  the  insouciant  composer  being  spurred  to  his  utmost  by  a  dis- 
paraging letter  from  Paisiello,  who  had  already  set  Beaumarchais* 
comedy.  It  was  the  empty  Connoisseur,  who  thought  to  gain  reputation 
by  declaring  that  "  the  picture  would  have  been  better  painted  if  the 
painter  had  taken  more  trouble."  Nor  will  it  ever  be  forgotten  that 
the  "  Bride  of  Lammerraoor,"  the  masterpiece  o^  Walter  Scott  (whose 
defence  of  fertility,  apropos  of  Dryden,  might  have  been  quoted  as 
germane  to  the  matter,)  was  thrown  off  when  the  Novelist  was  hardly 
conscious  of  what  he  wrote,  owing  to  racking  bodily  pain.  Those,  we 
believe,  on  whom  the  gift  of  fertility  has  been  bestowed,  run  some 
danger  of  becoming  ''nothing  if  not  fertile.**  Their  minds  are  impulsive 
rather  than  thoughtful — their  fancies  strengthened  by  the  very  pro- 
cess and  passion  of  pouring  them  forth.  In  the  case  of  Donizetti^ 
at  least,  it  is  obvious  that  his  invention  was,  year  by  year,  becoming 
fresher  with  incessant  use  and  practice.  There  dre  no  melodies  in 
any  of  his  early  works  so  delicious  as  those  of  the  quartett  and 
serenade  in  '<  Don  Pasquale  ;*'  no  writing  so  highly  toned,  characteris- 
tic, and  dramatic  as  the  entire  fourth  act  of ''  La  Favorite.**  His  in- 
strumentation too,  always  correct,  became  richer  and  more  fanciful 
in  each  successive  effort  It  has  elsewhere  been  remarked  (and  the 
remark  is  significant  to  all  who  are  used  to  consider  the  subject), 
that,  considering  Donizetti  was  called  to  write  for  particular  singers, 
an  unusual  number  of  the  Operas  thus  fashioned  to  order  have  be- 
come stock  pieces :  thereby  proved  to  be  essentially  superior  to  the 
generality  of  works  of  their  class.  In  short,  it  may  be  said  that, 
though  there  be  no  startling  beauties  in  the  Operas  of  Donizetti, — 
none  of  those  electrical  melodies  which,  like  "  Di  tanti,^  or  ''  Largo  al 
factotum,*'  or  "  Assisa  al  pie  d'un  salice,'*  ring  through  the  world,— i- 
neither  such  intensity  of  sentiment  as  reconciles  us  to  the  very  limited 
alphabet  in  which  Bellini  wrote^— they  contain  so  much  of  what  is 
agreeable,  so  many  happy  combinations  and  excellent  opportunities 
for  vocal  display,  such  frequent  harmony  between  the  sounds  and  the 
situations  to  be  portrayed,  as  to  justify  musical  annalists  in  giving  the 
Master  a  high  place  in  the  records  of  his  time :  and  in  sincerely  re- 
gretting his  loss.  Would  that  any  signs  could  be  discerned  of  a  suc- 
cessor I  But,  for  the  present,  the  solitary  originality  which  Italian 
musicians  manifest  lies  in  excess  and  exaggeration. 


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542 
REPUBLICAN    MANNERS, 

BY  THE   FLANBUR   IN   PABI8. 

Parii,  Maj,  184a 
It  is  only  repeating  what  has  been  said  so  often,  to  remark  that  the 
French  are  the  best  actors  in  the  world,  in  all  pieces^  grave  or  light, 
that  may  be  designated  by  them  comidies  de  maswB.    Put  them  into 
the  costume  of  Uie  part,  and  they  will  act  it  to  admiration ;  impose 
upon  them  a  new  rtU^  and  they  will  assume  it  as  if  they  had  played 
nothing  else  all  their  lives ;  give  them  a  new  coat,  and  Uiey  will  find 
themselves  at  home  in  it  at  once,  or  at  all  events,  should  it  be  too 
tieht  in  the  arm-hole,  or  sit  uncomfortably  across  the  back,  they  will 
tiuce  care  never  to  let  you  know  it     If,  then,  in  the  new  parts  now 
given  them  to  play  in  a  new-old  comedy  of  the  Republic— or  tragedy 
— how  shall  it  be  ?  let  us  call  it  drama,  then,  which  has  a  vague  and 
hybrid  sense  accommodating  to  all  circumstances ;  if,  then,  in  their 
new  parts  they  act  not  to  the  life,  it  is  not  for  want  of  ability,  but 
tout  bonnement,  because  they  refuse  to  play  them.     In  this  respect, 
however,  France,  or  Paris  at  all  events,  is  divided  into  two  distinct 
categories;  those  who,  always  looking  back  to  the  old  republic  as 
the  only  true  model,  and  continually  striving  to  imitate  the  past,  as  if 
the  only  salvation  for  their  idol  were  to  be  found  in  the  self-same 
track  wnich  formerly  led  to  its  overthrow  from  its  pedestal,  seem  to 
think  that,  by  assuming  all  the  outward  distinguisliing  forms  which 
marked  the  dress^  manner,  and  social  intercourse  of  tluit  epoch,  thepr 
must  indubitably  secure  its  everlasting  enthronement  upon  the  basis 
they  desire ;  and  those  who,  equally  as  anxious  to  set  aside  and  obli- 
terate from  the  memory  of  their  country-people  all  reminiscence  of 
the  same  bloody  and  hateful  past,  as  strenuously  avoid  the  external 
forms  that  have  the  least  appearance  of  a  desire  to  return  to  it;  those 
who  truckle  with  their  consciences  in  dress  and  mamier,  the  **  half- 
and-halfers,"  in  fact,  of  modern  republicanism  are  but  the  few. 

A  republican  government,  then,  may  issue  a  clap-trap  edict  to  please 
the  fancy  of  the  mob,  and  make  it  rub  its  hands  with  gratified  spite 
by  abolishing  distinctive  titles,  until  it  prohibits  the  adoption  of 
them  by  penal  law  it  will  have  done  no  more  than  a  puerile  act ;  and 
dukes,  and  counts,  and  marquises  will  call  themselves  duke,  county  and 
marquis  as  much  as  before ;  nor  can  the  post-office  refuse  to  transmit 
letters  because  they  are  addressed  with  a  titled  direction.  In  fiict, 
as  long  as  they  choose  to  act  the  old  part,  they  will  act  it  with  as 
much  state  as  ever,  and,  in  many  cases,  purposely  with  a  little  more. 
Among  this  set  may  be  found,  however,  many  of  the  **  half-and-half- 
ers"  dready  alluded  to,  men  who  whisper  their  titles  under  their 
breath  in  the  streets,  and  cover  the  arms  upon  their  carriage-panels 
with  a  thin  coat  of  pamt,  that  makes  believe  to  obliterate  them,  while 
it  leaves  them  very  visible  below.  But  these  are  the  peuretix,  as  po- 
pular phrase  now  has  it,  who  are  affected  by  a  false,  or,  at  all  events, 
premature  fear  of  exhibiting  the  old  distinctive  marks,  and  who  walk 
the  streets,  get  into  their  carriages,  and  go  to  bed  at  night  with  a 
wholesome  fear  of  the  guiUoline  before  their  eyes  and  in  their  dreams. 


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BEPUBLICAN  MANNERS.  543 

A  republican  goyernment,  too,  may  decree  ihat^  in  future,  tliere 
should  be  no  messieurs  and  mesdames  in  France,  and  that  nothing 
should  exist  but  citayens  and  citoyennes  ;  people,  as  long  as  they  do 
not  choose  to  act  the  part  of  republicanism  to  this  extent,  will  yet  be 
to  one  another  monsieur  and  madame.  It  is  not  because  they  lack 
any  ability  to  get  up  the  part  to  perfection^  but  because  thev  do  not 
choose  to  play  it,  although  in  this  last  little  detail  of  social  life  habit 
may  have  some  influesoe ;  for  in  one  of  the  very  government  edicts 
that  fBTted  this  node  of  salutation  anew,  the  address  to  the  mayors 
of  Pftris,  enjoining  them  to  admit  no  other  denomination  than  that  of 
cUoyen  in  official  acts,  the  first  words  are  Citoyen  Maire,  and,  half 
way  down  the  handbill.  Monsieur  le  Moire  slips  out,  as  if  uncon- 
sciously, in  the  very  official  declaration  itself  agaiost  that  illegal  term ; 
and  a  furious  <<  out-and-outer"  has  been  even  heard  to  let  fall  the 
monsieur  by  accident,  although  he  afterwards  humbly  begged  pardon 
for  having  offered  the  insult  of  this  dreadful  and  obnoxious  title. 

In  what,  then,  is  to  be  found  the  distinction  between  Parisian  man^ 
ners  under  a  republican  form  of  government  and  those  under  the  late 
reign  ? — in  a  thousand  little  floating  shades,  too  difficult  to  catch  as 
they  flit  by  and  daguerreotype  upon  paper,  nuances  too  fine  to  paint 
in  good,  strong,  visible  colours,  in  a  thousand  delicate  traits  which  it 
is  dmost  impossible  to  embody  in  a  decided  form,  but  which  the  sense 
may  comprehend,  the  heart  feel,  and  even  the  eye  see,  although  the 
mouth  may  be  unable  formally  to  express  them,  or  the  hand  clearly 
to  trace  them.  Perhaps,  there  is  not  a  soul  in  Paris  to  whom  the 
revolution  of  February  does  not  appear  like  a  past  history,  acted  years 
and  not  months  ago,  to  whom  an  age,  a  long,  long  age,  does  not  seem 
to  have  passed  since  those  days,  to  whom  a  wide  gap  does  not  appear 
to  sever,  as  a  yawning  gulf,  the  present  from  the  past — sundering  the 
one  from  the  other  by  an  abyss  so  wide,  at  a  distance  so  great,  that 
the  present  bears  no  resemblance  whatever  to  the  past.  This  impres- 
sion is  one  difficult  to  convey  to  the  minds  of  those  who  have  not 
been  upon  the  spot  to  feel  it,  but  the  gulf  exists  no  less  in  the  minds 
of  those  who  have ;  and  they  must  feel  the  change,  not  only  in  new 
institutions,  in  a  new  course  of  things,  in  new  aspirations,  new  ten- 
dencies, new  ambitions,  new  hatreds,  in  all  the  new  political,  social, 
and  moral  state,  in  fact,  but  in  habits,  manners,  physiognomy,  and  the 
general  aspect  of  every  day  life.  It  seems  to  be  in  the  air,  as  well  as 
upon  the  earth ;  there  appears  to  be  a  changed  look  in  all  things ;  it 
is  impressed  upon  every  face  and  almost  in  every  gesture.  But  these 
are  exactly  the  undefinable  nuances  which  are  to  be  felt  but  not  to  be 
expressed,  and  which  the  Fldneur  must  renounce  any  attempt  to  put 
into  any  tangible  form. 

Traits  enough  of  change  are  to  be  found,  however,  sufficiently  broad- 
ly marked  to  be  distinctly  noted  down ;  and  these  be  it  the  task  of 
the  Fldneur  once  more  to  sketch.  These  traits  of  republican  man- 
ners may  be  divided  into  three  categories, — those  that  pervade  all 
classes  of  society,  and  are  to  be  seen  in  the  every-day  aspect  of  gene- 
ral life ;  those  that  are  purposely  put  on  by  the  ''out-and-outer"  re- 
publican, the  worshipper  of  the  past  already  mentioned,  he,  in  fact, 
who  thinks  that  his  own  salvation  and  that  of  the  res  publica  depend 
upon  his  own  individual  assumption  of  a  certain  garb  or  emblem,  his 
making  an  uncomprombingly  ferocious  face,  or  his  thundering  forth 


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544  HEPUBLICAK   MANNERS. 

certain  <<  cut  and  dried'*  phrases,  borrowed  of  old  conventionalists^ 
and  handed  dovni,  worn  out,  half-rotten,  and  considerably  stained  with 
those  marks  of  blood  which  ages  wash  not  out,  to  be  used  by  new  ora^ 
cle-deliverers  of  old  ravings, — in  short,  the  new  actor  of  the  old  part, 
who  thinks  it  a  mighty  fine  thing  to  act  it  to  the  life,  or  rather  to  the 
death ;  and,  lastly,  those  that  are  assumed,  half  in  earnest,  half  io 
sport,  by  persons  who  seem  to  think  that  playing  at  old  or  new  repub- 
licanism is  only  an  amusing  farce  to  play,  and  that  they  can,  uncon- 
sciously as  it  were,  permit  themselves  such  a  harmless  affectation,  as 
they  might  any  other  new  mode  likely  to  become  the  general  fashion  ; 
while,  in  truth,  like  dandy  shop-boys  with  a  new  flaring  waistcoat- 
pattern,  they  only  get  up  a  caricature,  and  are  totally  ignorant  that 
their  sport,  their  playing  with  these  affectations  of  the  past  may  not 
prove  so  harmless  as  they  deem,  and  that  they  may  burn  their  fingers 
at  the  torch  they  light  in  play. 

Of  the  change  that  has  taken  place  in  general  manners,  one  of  the 
most  striking  is  the  habit — which  was  adopted  in  the  first  days  of  the 
revolution,  the  days  when  all  was  doubt,  confusion,  and  alarm,  and 
when  all  individual  as  well  as  general  interests  were  involved  in  the 
rapidly  running  and  uncertain  course  of  events,  when  all,  in  fact,  had 
one  thought,  the  thought  of  the  politics  of  the  moment^  if  not  their 
hopes  and  fears,  in  common — the  habit  of  mingling  and  speaking  pell- 
mell.  Everybody  speaks  to  everybody ;  unknown  individuals  accost 
each  other ;  friends  or  enemies,  who  never  met  before,  are  sudden 
enemies  or  friends,  according  as  their  sentiments  concur  or  differ.  Is 
there  the  least  appearance  of  a  commotion  in  the  streets,  a  good  friend 
with  a  face  you  never  saw  before,  will  ask  you,  with  a  ''hail-fellow- 
well-met"  air,  what  is  going  on,  and  enter  into  a  discussion,  if  you 
are  inclined  to  listen  to  him,  upon  tlie  movement,  whatever  it  may 
be,  or  whether  it  may  have  or  have  not  an  importance :  if,  eager  to 
know  the  last  news,  you  are  reading  the  evening  paper  under  a  gas- 
light at  a  street- corner,  or  at  a  well-lighted  shop-window,  a  workman 
will  touch  his  hat,  and  ask  you  the  result  of  the  last  topic  of  interest. 
There  is  a  "  free-and-easv,"  but  certainly  neither  insolent  or  unplea- 
sant manner  in  all  this,  which  Parisians  dreamed  not  of  three  months 
ago.  In  the  knots  and  crowds  that  form  along  the  Boulevards  or  on 
the  principal  public  places,  by  night  as  well  as  day,  the  politicizing 
disputants  in  the  midst  have  no  knowledge  of  each  other.  Your 
neighbour  turns  to  speak  to  you  upon  the  subject  under  discussion,  and 
perhaps  you  find  yourself  unexpectedly  the  centre  of  a  new  group  of 
listeners  or  argufiers.  If  the  topic  of  the  day  is  one  of  pecuh'ar 
interest  or  excitement,  the  voices  raised  in  these  improvisSs,  al 
fresco  clubs,  may  be  louder  and  more  animated  than  usual ;  but,  gene- 
rally speaking,  the  friends  or  enemies  of  the  moment,  whatever  the 
sympathy  or  dispute,  will  touch  their  hats  to  one  another  as  they  go 
asunder,  and  a  collision  or  a  movement  is  rare  among  the  disputants, 
although  in  a  few  instances  angry  passions  have  come  to  hustling. 
The  homme  du  peuple  talks  with  the  iUgant^  the  workman  with  the 
exclusive  of  the  Faubourg  St  Germain  or  the  Chauss6e  d'Antin,  the 
blotise  with  the  redingote,  as  the  modern  distinctionary  phrase  goes, 
the  legitimist  with  the  republican  of  old  date,  the  noble,  the  bourgeois^ 
and  the  proUtaire  all  mixed  together.  This  state  of  things  is  perfectly 
new  to  Paris,  and  it  h^  a  curious  and  not  an  unamusing  loolu    It  is 


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REPUBLICAN  MANNERS.  S45 

one  of  the  best  forms  of  republicanism,  as  visible  in  external  general 
life ;  and,  as  long  as  moderate  principles  still  maintain  the  supremacy, 
and  the  violent  republicans  of  the  '*  blood-and-thunder "  school  have 
not  succeeded  in  leavening  with  the  bitterness  of  the  gall  of  hatred, 
they  take  such  pains  to  instil  between  classes,  the  good  understand- 
ing that  at  first  seemed  to  be  disposed  to  exercise  its  influence  among 
them,  this  new  trait  of  modem  republican  manners  can  only  tend  to 
have  a  beneficial  and  conciliatory  effect 

The  first  symptoms  of  this  spirit,  when  all  exclusion  was  thrown 
aside  on  the  one  hand,  and  all  mistrust  and  ill-will  on  the  other, 
seemed  in  truth  for  a  time  to  work  their  salutary  spell.  Woe,  then, 
to  the  men  who  use  all  their  energies,  and  spend  every  moment  of 
their  restless  lives  in  exciting,  with  all  the  venom  of  their  tongues, 
hatred,  spite,  malice,  and  suspicion,  when,  in  the  new  order  of  things, 
a  mutual  good  feeling  among  classes  was  gaining  the  ascendancy,  and 
in  raising  alofl  the  torch  of  discord  to  burn  and  to  destroy,  when  the 
light  of  reciprocal  intelligence  and  appreciation  had  already  begun  to 
enlighten  I  woe  to  them  !  May  they  alone  reap  the  harvest  of  the 
deadly  seed  they  sow.  The  change  in  manners  of  the  upper  towards 
the  lower  classes^  was  marked  and  striking  after  those  days,  when 
cn*cumstances  threw  men  of  both  together,  and  taught  each  to  know 
the  other  better ;  in  the  lower  towards  the  higher  it  was  no  less  re- 
markable; and  people  still  mix  upon  the  above-described  best  i^ 
proved  republic  equality  principle  in  the  streets,  accosting  and  con- 
versing with  each  other,  heedless  of  any  distinction  of  rank.  But  the 
better  spirit  is  no  longer  what  it  was.  The  government  itself  has 
gone  along  the  foolish  path  of  sundering  classes  in  its  official  acts ;  it 
proclaimed  the  sovereignty  of  the  people,  and  declared  its  voice  the 
voice  of  God,  and  then,  applying  afterwards  the  word  ^*  people  "  to 
the  lower  classes  alone,  taught  them  thus  that  they  alone  were  the 
sovereigns,  and  that,  in  those  days  of  equality,  their  will  and  their 
pleasure  was  not  equal,  but  paramount  to  that  of  all  other  classes  in 
the  state.  Nev^r  was  flattery  addressed  to  the  greatest  autocrat  by 
the  basest  of  courtiers,  that  could  vie  with  the  flattery  bestowed,  by 
government  edicts,  upon  the  people,  thus  severed  and  sundered  from 
the  rest  of  the  nation.  The  food  crammed  to  excess  down  its  throat, 
instead  of  being  good,  sound,  healthful,  plain  bread,  was  buttered  on 
one  side>  honeyed  on  the  other,  and  treacled  over  all.  How  could 
the  people's  stomach  stand  so  rich  a  treat  ?  If  its  stomach,  however, 
did  not  turn  at  it,  its  head  did ;  and  by  degrees  the  lordly  air,  the  in- 
solent manner,  the  '^make-room-for-me"  gesture,  and  the  imperative 
words  began  to  be  heard  among  those  who  were  so  sedulously  taught 
that  they  were  up  above,  at  the  summit  of  all  social  systems,  and  ^t 
all  others  were  done  below  and  beneath  them.  How  with  this  feel- 
ing will  mix  the  acrimony,  the  hatred,  the  malice,  the  sourness,  the 
bile,  that  existed  not  before ;  and  that  a  desperate  faction,  whose 
ambition  relies  for  its  success  but  on  the  force  of  a  people's  evil  pas- 
sions, instils  so  carefully  and  works  up  with  so  much  restless  energy? 
But  with  the  future  the  Fldneur  has  nought  to  do.  Still,  as  he  writes, 
that  more  genial  trait  of  republican  manners,  the  fusion  and  the  re- 
ciprocal politeness,  may  be  found  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  although  in 
a  lesser  degree  than  in  the  first  times  that  followed  on  the  revolution. 

One  influence  that  has  caused  a  very  material  change  to  come  over 


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546  REPUBLICAN  MANNERS. 

the  **  spirit  of  the  dream"  of  Parisian  life,  is  the  establishment  c€  the 
many  hundreds  of  clubs.  Men's  vanity  leads  them  to  renouoee  any 
other  occupation  or  amusement  than  their  nightly  club  meetiogs,  far 
viore  than  any  real  zest  they  may  have  for  sudi  an  employment  of 
their  time;  and  what  more  powerful  Jncttement  can  the  Parisian 
have?  Hie  ^dobbist"  imagines  that  bis  mere  presence  at  his  club, 
and  the  impoitant  vote  he  is  to  give  upon  the  matters  discussed,  must 
influence  the  directkm  of  «&«>  in  the  whole  country ;  the  welfare  of 
all  Fhmce  depends  upon  his  nod.  Cm  jma  wwmim,  tkem,  at  iiii  at- 
tendance? True,  the  clubs,  and  especmlly  those  of  a  morevioleiit 
description,  may  yet  have  their  influential  part  to  play  in  the  great 
drama  of  the  day;  but  the  clubbist,  as  yet,  somewhat  overrates  his 
vast  importance.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  club  mania,  which  extends 
to  the  softer  sex  also,  materially  contributes  to  change  the  manners 
of  Parisian  life.  People  seem  to  think  a  gay  air  unworthy  of  them : 
they  grow  grave  and  magisterial  in  manner;  they  talk  as  if  they  were 
spouting ;  they  walk  as  if  the  burden  of  the  nation's  weal  was  on 
their  shoulders.  Their  discourse  is  of  the  merits  of  their  club  and  its 
speakers,  and  the  designs  and  tendencies  of  other  clubs.  The 
theatres  are  abandoned, — the  theatres,  those  true  arenas  of  the 
Parisian  IcurgeoiSy  his  real  home  and  his  delight,  abandoned  for  the 
clubs,  and  private  theatricals  on  a  large  scale,  in  which  he  himself 
may  act  a  part.  At  first  the  disputes  on  this  subject  waxed  warm  in 
domestic  liife  between  spouses;  but  for  once  the  interests  of  the 
country  prevailed  against  petticoat  power ;  and  madame,  instead  of 
dragging  mouBieur  to  the  theatre  or  the  ball-room,  followed  him  to 
the  club  and  the  debating-room.  The  change  which  this  important 
event  then  has  produced  in  manners,  habits,  physiognomy,  and  ex- 
pression of  Parisian  society,  in  a  variety  of  ways,  may  easily  be 
understood. 

Another  great  change  in  Parisian  manners,  which  a  revolution  and 
a  republic  have  produced,  is  the  bastard  mUitary  air  that  pervades 
all  classes.  In  spite  of  its  manifesto  of  peaceful  ifttentions,  the  re- 
public  seems  resolved  upon  making  as  martial  a  face  as  possible. 
The  streets  of  Paris  are  thronged  with  uniforms,  every  tenth  man 
shoulders  a  musket ;  bayonets  gleam  all  day  long  in  masses  in  the 
sun ;  and  pickets,  and  patrols,  and  flying  battalions  are  marching  and 
countermarching  in  all  directions.  In  the  first  confusion  and  the  first 
alarm  that  followed  upon  the  days  of  the  revolution,  all  that  was 
young  and  ardent  rushed  to  inscribe  itself  in  the  ranks  oi  the  Na- 
tional Guards,  as  a  means  of  general  and  individual  defence ;  the 
mania  was  catching ;  the  government  decreed  that  every  citizen  was 
^  garde  natumal;  and  all  male  Paris  donned  the  uniform,  clapped  the 
red  epaulets  on  his  shoulders,  and  snatched  up  the  musket.  Fra- 
ternity/^/rs,  and  reviews,  and  ceremonies,  and  elections,  and  demon- 
strations, and  manifestations,  and  conspiracies,  and  rumours  of  con- 
spiracies, and  sudden  alarms  of  insurrections,  real  or  false,  have  con- 
tributed to  keep  the  martial  spirit  of  the  citizen- soldier  in  a  constant 
flame.  And  then  the  legions  of  the  raggamuffin,  but  quickly  dis- 
ciplined Oarde  Mobile^  that  has  caught  up  the  military  look  with  true 
Parisian  ready  inspiration,  swell  the  numbers  of  the  old  troops  of  the 
line,  again  readmitted  into  Paris,  in  spite  of  the  jealous  manceuvrings 
of  the  ultra  party ;  and  there  are  new  republican  ^niards  in  old  re- 


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BEPUBUOAN  MANNERS  547 

publican  uniformSy  and  civic  guards,  and  Montagnards,  whose  mission 
or  legality  no  human  creature  seems  distinctly  to  understand,  all 
armed  to  the  teeth,  with  pistols,  and  sabres,  and  poniards^  and  what- 
not^ in  the  way  of  truculent  weapon ;  and  the  military  show  and 
vision  of  uniforms,  and  plumes,  and  cockades,  and  epaulets,  and  arms, 
stretch  to  the  ''  crack  of  doom."  And  the  new  republicans  of  old 
fancies,  who  connect  republican  ideas  with  vague  notions  of  battle 
and  bloodshed,  and  glory,  and  fighting,  and  the  constantly  screeched 
phrase,  "  mourir  pour  la  patrie^  although  they  disdain  the  National 
Guards,  and  strive  to  persuade  the  lower  classes  that  the  National 
Guards  must  be  their  natural  and  bom  enemies,  get  up  a  martial  air 
on  their  own  private  accounts^  and  wear  big  red  scarfs,  and  knit  their 
brows,  and  look  marvellously  furious.  No  wonder^  then,  that  all 
Paris  should  cultivate  moustaches  more  than  ever,  and  curl  them 
with  a  military  twist  of  the  hand,  and  cry  "aiu?  armes/*  and  "  Vive  la 
Fdogne^'  or  vivt  something  else,  at  every  two  words,  afler  the  in- 
flation of  a  fraternizing  banquet ;  and  talk  of  wondrous  exploits  and 
deeds  of  glory,  and  of  shooting  everybody  and  everything ;  and  that 
shop-boys  should  exchange  the  measuring  wand  for  the  musket,  and 
that  even  members  of  the  government,  with  very  civil  functions, 
should  hold  up  their  heads  and  do  *^  the  military^  to  the  life,  when 
they  pass  troops  in  review.  The  vision  of  bayonets  is  the  day-dream 
iii  Parisian  life ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  close  the  eyes  to  it.  If  it 
comes  not  in  overwhelming  torrents,  it  comes  in  little  desultory 
fever-fits  before  you;  but  absent  is  the  apparition  never.  Spite  of 
all  its  peaceful  assurances,  also,  so  martial  has  grown  the  spirit  of  the 
government,  that  it  has  positively  given  orders  for  all  the  little  boys 
m  public  schools  to  be  clothed  in  military  fashion ;  and,  possibly,  the 
little  urchins  may  soon  learn  their  lessons  with  musket  on  arm,  under 
the  superintendence  of  military-looking  ushers  with  moustaches  a  foot 
long. 

If,  then,  among  the  many  other  traits,  for  which  he  has  no  space, 
the  Fldneur  hastily  records  the  constant  cry,  newly  adopted  by  the 
lower  classes — the  cry  bom  of  a  people's  arbitrary  triumph,  when  it 
so  often  bid  a  whole  city  illuminate  in  its  honour, — the  cry  to  be 
heard  at  every  moment,  the  cry  of  *' dea  lampions"  which  has  now 
come  to  signify  not  much  more  than  <<  Go  it  1**  or  any  other  such 
polite  popular  phrase  of  an  English  populace,  and  is  used  upon  every 
occasion  of  its  reckless  merriment ;  if  he  alludes  also  to  the  constant 
recurrence  of  "  ex**  s  and  "  ci-devant "  s  in  palaces,  and  streets,  and 
nobles,  and  names,  and  attributes,  and  allocations,  that  confusion 
<^  twice  confounded  *'  of  all  things,  in  which  a  poor  mortal  knows  no 
longer  the  name  of  his  own  street,  or  of  his  best  acquaintance,  or  of 
the  quarter  of  the  town  he  now  seeks  in  vain  ;  if  he  were  to  trace — 
and  the  task  were  impossible — all  the  transformations  which  a  re- 
publican revolution  has  produced  in  men  and  things,  in  general,  it 
may  be  seen,  that,  in  the  general  external  aspect,  there  is  change 
enough  in  the  last  modem  Parisian  manners,  to  give  them  a  colour 
and  character  of  their  own. 

If  the  FlBntur  turns  now  from  the  general  to  the  partial^  he  has 
still  far  more  to  note.  If  he  attempts  a  sketch  of  the  violent  re- 
publican, the  ''  out-and-outer,"*  before  alluded  to,  the  dreamer  of  the 
past,  the  ddfier  of  the  ^Afonto^ne,"  him  of  the  destructive  organ. 


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548  REPUBLICAN  MANNERS. 

whose  constructiveness  must  be  marked  by  a  hole  instead  of  a  buinp^ 
he  will  find  colours  enough  to  paint  with,  and  pretty  glaring  ones  too. 
As  yet  the  yiolent,  the  ultra,  the  excUtSt  or  whatever  name  he  may 
bear  in  popular  altercation,  or  the  only  true,  the  only  pure,  the  onlj 
one  and  indivisible  real  democratic  republican,  as  he  calls  himself, 
finds  himself  in  a  minority  in  the  face  of  the  majority  of  moderatism. 
But  he  is  so  active^  stirring,  restless,  omnipresent ;  he  sticks  his  ban^ 
ner  up  so  high  ;  he  makes  so  much  outward  parade  of  his  opinions ; 
he  flares  his  blood-red  scarf  so  flauntily  abroad ;  he  takes  such  pains 
to  stamp  his  individuality  by  garb  and  emblem,  that  he  may  well  be 
taken  as  a  prominent  figure  in  a  picture  of  republican  manners. 

Besides,  who  would  not  recognise,  at  once,  his  studied  and  pur- 
posely assumed  air  of  uncompromising  ferocity  ?  his  frowning,  would- 
be  terrible,  discontented  face?  He  wears  expressly  the  blood-red 
cravat,  because  Lamartine,  whom  he  denounces  as  a  traitre  d  la  patrie, 
for  his  moderate  opinions,  mounted  on  high  the  tricolor  banner :  if 
he  is  of  the  lower  classes,  he  may,  perchance,  stick  the  ugly  cap  of 
liberty  on  his  head.  Listen  to  him  as  he  declaims,  in  the  open  streets, 
to  a  knot  of  chosen  few :  he  will  openly  declare  that  *'  if  the  National 
Assembly  does  not  work  his  will,  he  has  a  band  ready  to  kver  des 
barricades,  and  march  against  the  traitorous  representatives  of  the 
people."  If  you  ask  him  his  opinions,  he  will  seriously  tell  you, 
though  not  perhaps  in  as  many  direct  words,  that  *'  a  republican  form 
of  government  means  a  state  of  constant  and  violent  revolution/'  and 
that  ''he  who  desires  a  more  quiet  progress,  or  a  semblance  of 
stability  and  order,  is  a  rSactionaire,  a  contre-revolutionaire,  a  traitre,  a 
suepect"  The  revolution  of  February  was  but  the  prologue  to  a  bloody 
drama  in  his  eyes :  he  has  paid  the  price  of  his  life's  blood,  he  will 
tell  you,  for  the  rest  of  the  performance — although  perhaps  he  never 
stirred  out  of  his  nest  during  the  fighting— and  the  rest  of  the  per- 
formance, be  it  of  five  acts  or  fifty,  have  he  will.  It  is  for  this  pur- 
pose, although  his  logic  does  not  appear  very  clear,  that  he  is  as  stem, 
and  ferocious,  and  disagreeable,  and  unpolite  as  possible :  if  he  does 
not  call  himself  yet,  "  Brutus,"  or  "  Spartacus,"  as  men  did  in  old 
times,  he  intends  to  do  it  shortly,  or  perhaps  does  already  in  his  own 
little  circle. 

He  it  is  who  denounces  the  man  who  dares  to  say  <<  monsieur,*'  as 
an  aristocrate  :  he  considers  himself  dishonoured  by  the  appellation : 
he  interlards  every  other  word  with  eitoyen ;  and  he  even  calls  his 
wife  or  his  mistress  ma  dtoyenne  I  He  it  is  who  puts  on  mourning,  or 
parades  the  streets  with  a  crape  scarf  upon  his  arm,  because  in  an  in- 
surrection in  a  provincial  town,  got  up  by  the  discontented  ultra 
party,  because  of  the  triumph  of  the  moderates  in  the  elections,  the 
rebels  were  repulsed  with  loss.  He  declares  that  \i\sfrire$  have  been 
assassinated  by  the  barbarous  and  bloody-minded  National  Guards,  who 
had  the  audacity,  the  vile  wretches,  to  defend  their  own  lives  against  the 
attack  of  the  insurgents :  he  denounces  the  government  that  will  not 
have  them  all  arrested  as  murderers;  and  en  attendant,  he  puts  the 
black  crape  over  the  red  scarf^  to  shew  the  emblem  of  what  he  calls  **  a 
national  mourning."  He  it  is  whom  you  may  see,  at  street  corners, 
trying  to  excite  the  workmen  of  Paris  to  a  similar  spirit  of  insurrec- 
tion by  the  distribution  of  incendiary  proclamations ;  but  praise  be  yet 
to  the  last  lingering  spark  of  good  sense  in  the  majority  of  the  Parisian 


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REPUBLICAN  MANNERS.  549 

working  classes  1 — ^he  is  often  repulsed  by  them  as  a  pest  to  society. 
He  lives  but  in  the  bloody  recollections  of  the  past  He  wears  the 
^ilet  d  la  Robespierre  as  a  sign  of  his  sympathy  for  that  great  and  glo- 
rious man,  and  of  his  attachment  for  the  great  and  glorious  opinions 
he  advocated,  and  lie  flings  back  the  broad  lappels  upon  his  coat  to 
flare  abroad  his  principles  with  as  much  outward  evidence  as  possible. 
French  actors  were  always  famous  for  getting  up  their  parts  with  the 
nicest  attention  to  costume :  these  actors  of  a  dangerous  drama  are 
determined  to  dress  the  part  to  the  life^  after  the  best  approved  old 
model.  On  the  stage  of  the  revolution  their  company  is  compara- 
tively small  at  present;  or  it  is  to  be  hoped  so;  although  they  chose 
to  enumerate  upon  their  bills  of  the  play  all  the  working  classes 
among  their  "  guards  and  attendants ;"  but,  probably,  this  may  prove 
only  a  deluded,  but  not  delusive^  puff.  They  themselves,  however, 
have  their  parts  as  premier's  rdies  to  play ;  and  they  will  probably  play 
them  out,  sooner  or  later.  For  a  moment,  these  good  gentlemen,  who 
hold  much  to  outward  appearances  as  rallying  signs  of  their  party, 
thought  that  their  course  had  wonderfully  gained  in  strength,  because 
the  government,  led  astray  by  an  ill-omened  influence  in  its  own 
body,  decreed  that  the  representatives  of  the  people  should  wear, 
in  their  Assembly,  the  costume  of  the  old  heroes  of  the  Convention. 
What  bloody-minded  patriotic  bosoms  might  not  have  beaten  under 
the  £iilet  d  la  Robespierre  I  Unfortunately,  for  their  glory,  the  re- 
presentatives of  the  people  had  more  food  sense  than  the  govern- 
ment :  they  refused  to  wear  the  hateful  costume  of  evil  memory.  - 
But  is  not  that  sufficient  for  them  all  to  be  denounced  as  traitres  d  la 
patrie  ?  The  men,  who  would  refuse  to  wear  the  glorious  waistcoat 
of  such  a  man,  could  be  nothing  else  than  traitors.  The  ^let  d  la 
Robespierre^  the  red  cravat,  the  Phrygian  cap,  and  all  the  other  em- 
blematic trumpery  of  a  past  time — the  ferocious  air  and  the  agitation 
of  the  street  corner —the  angry  declamation  in  the  crowd,  and  the 
would-be  Roman  air — may  all  enter  into  the  second  category  of 
modem  republican  manners.  Paris  as  yet  rejects  them  from  its 
first :  and  in  general  they  are  looked  upon  with  scorn  or  fear,  accord- 
ing to  the  characters  of  men^-even  although  a  pair  of  the  ultra- 
party  members  in  the  late  government  itself  may  surmount  their 
names  upon  their  visiting  cards  with  caps  of  liberty,  and  banners,  and 
joined  hands,  and  rays  of  glory,  emblematical  of  Liberty,  Equality, 
and  Fraternity,  and  the  Republic,  one  and  indivisible— and  another 
may  institute  a  fete,  teeming  with  the  theatrical  Grecian  trumpery 
of  the  old  ceremonies  of  the  old  republic. 

In  the  changes  that  Parisian  manners  have  undergone,  under  a 
republican  form,  there  remains  the  third  category  —  that  of  those 
amusing  gentlemen,  who  seem  to  think  it  «  fine  fun  "  to  play  at  re- 
publicanism, as  a  new  fashion,  and  who  get  up  republican  affectations, 
as  they  would  get  up  a  lisp^  if  lisping  were  the  mode.  In  the  first 
days  of  the  revolution  many  were  influenced  by  the  more  cogent 
reason  of  fear :  they  dreaded  an  imaginary  ferocious  mob,  that  was 
to  be  appeased  by  demonstrations;  and  provincials,  probably,  still 
come  to  Paris  filled  with  similar  fancies.  But  your  affected  repub- 
lican knows  that,  in  the  present  state  of  things,  such  fears  are  need- 
less; and  he  only  affects  ''for  the  nonce.**  The  trite  and  vulgar 
comparison  of  frying-pan  would  ill  convey  the  idea  of  the  wonderful 


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550  REPUBLICAN   MANNERS. 

tricolor  cockade  he  sticks  upon  his  hal  cnt  on  his  bosom :  he  wears  a 
tricolor  nosegay  in  his  button  hole :  he  wreathes  a  tricolor  riband 
round  his  cane  :  he  wears  a  tricolor  breasl-pin  upon  a  tricolor 
cravat  He  sometimes  sticks  a  short  pipe  in  bu  mouth,  to  have  an 
air  atissi  bien  canaille  que  potsible.  He  says  tu  and  ioi  to  all  his  ac- 
quaintances, in  order  to  do  the  thing  comme  il/au$,  in  a  republican 
sense.  He  glories  in  the  name  of  **  workman,''  and*  aa  he  cannot 
take  the  aristocratic  title  of  the  day  from  any  personal  or  ancestral 
precedent,  he  calls  himself  ouorier  de  Vintelligencey  although  he  may 
probably  have  never  written  a  line  in  his  life,  and  the  second  part  of 
the  title  may,  like  many  other  ci-^evant  ones  in  France,  be,  at  all 
events,  very  questionable.  He  has  had  some  thoughts  of  standing 
for  representative  of  the  people  in  the  National  Assembly ;  perhaps 
he  has  even  gone  to  the  expense  of  printing  a  list  of  popular  candi- 
dates,  to  be  distributed,  in  which  his  own  name  was  adroitly  niched  in 
between  two  heroes  of  the  day,  with  hope  that,  amongst  the  rest,  he 
might  slip  in  by  mistake.  A  representative  of  the  people  would 
have  been  a  charming  part  to  play:  and  besides,  with  five-and-twenty 
francs  a  day,  as  wages  from  his  country,  he  might  or  might  not  have 
paid  his  debts.  In  several  of  the  voting  sections  of  Paris,  there  were 
countless  quantities  of  candidates,  who  had  one  vote  a  piece  (an  his- 
torical fact!)  probably  these  republicans,  in  sport,  each  voted  for 
himself.  As,  in  spite  of  his  manoeuvres,  his  chance  of  election  has 
been  so  small,  his  next  affectation  will  probably  be,  to  declaim  in 
violent  opposition  to  the  Assembly.  He  may  poser  again  after 
this  fashion :  and  it  is  a  part  to  play  at  all  events.  Meanwhile,  he 
goes  on  wearing  his  Phrygian  cap  at  home, ''  bethou-ing  *'  his  acquaint- 
ances, and  swearing  "  by  the  soul  of  Danton." 

In  the  same  class  as  these  good  gentlemen,  and  perfectly  on  their 
level,  may  be  reckoned  the  little  children  in  the  Tuileries  gardens, 
who  cease  not  to  play  <<  at  revolution  "  in  the  alleys,  flourish  penny 
drums  and  trumpets,  and  make  barricades  of  the  chairs,  or  the  little 
gamins,  on  the  Boulevards,  who  wait  in  swarms  at  the  theatre  doors, 
in  the  hopes  of  begging  a  cheque  from  those  who  came  out,  and  who 
formerly,  under  a  monarchic  regime^  interlarded  their  entreaties  with 
the  cajoling  appellations,  mon  baron/  mon  marquis  I  man  prince/ 
mon  ambassadeur  /  and  now  think  to  do  so  much  honour  by  scream- 
ing mon  citoyen  /  mon  camarade  / 

Parisian  manners  have,  then,  undergone  a  change,  and,  taken 
several  good  long  steps  in  the  way  of  republicanism.  Will  they  stop 
short  now  ?  or  will  the  ^^  out-and-outers  "  ever  gain  the  upper  hand, 
and,  in  their  principles  of  destruction,  sweep  away  all  the  past,  only 
to  reconstruct  in  manner,  emblem,  and  costume  ?  That  is  for  time 
to  shew.  At  all  events,  the  Fldneur  will  have  no  desire  then  to  trace 
fresh  sketches  of  an  order  of  things,  which  has  already  filled  many  a 
sad  and  serious  page  in  history,  and  which  will  need  a  more  vigorous 
pen  than  his  to  record. 


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561 


ROBERT  EMMETT  AND  ARTHUR  AYLMER; 
OR,   DUBLIN    IN    1803. 

BY  W.  H.   MAXWBLL, 
AUTHOR  OF   ''8T0BIB8  OF  WATBBLOO/'   &C. 

The  2drd  of  June,  1803,  formed  a  memorable  epoch  in  the  history 
of  the  Irish  metropolis.  Apprized  that  an  explosion  might  be  ex- 
pected, the  authorities  took  no  measures  to  counteract  the  popular 
disturbance.  Neither  the  police  force  was  increased,  nor  did  the 
military  receive  any  addition ;  the  usual  number  of  constables  occu- 
pied the  watch-houses,  and  the  same  weak  pickets  patrolled  the 
streets.  Strange  as  it  may  appear,  from  the  suddenness  of  the 
Smeute  and  the  supineness  of  the  executive,  the  seat  of  government 
might  have  readily  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  conspirators ;  and 
little  doubt  exists,  that,  had  the  wild  and  visionary  leader  of  the  in- 
surrection led  his  tumultuary  followers  at  once  to  attack  the  castle, 
the  attempt  would  have  proved  successful.  But  evanescent  as  the 
blaze  of  stubble,  the  flame  of  rebellion  sparkled,  scintillated,  and  ex« 
pired.  No  daring  act  of  reckless  gallantry  flung  the  mantle  of 
Quixotic  chivalry  over  the  hopeless  attempt,  and  within  half  an  hour 
from  its  commencement,  the  story  of  the  mad  essay  was  closed.  Its 
duration  was  marked  only  by  the  murder  of  unoffending  individuals, 
its  suppression  achieved  by  a  subaltern's  picket,  and  a  few  loyalists 
and  watchmen. 

It  was  afterwards  remembered  and  remarked,  that,  from  an  early 
hour  in  the  afternoon,  the  bridges  over  the  canal  which  connect  the 
adjoining  county  with  the  capital,  had  been  crossed  by  an  unusual 
number  of  the  Wicklow  peasantry,  dressed  in  the  grey  frieze  coats 
which  distinguished  them  from  other  passengers.  As  evening  ap- 
proached, groups  of  these  men  were  seen  lounging  in  the  lanes  and 
alleys  of  the  Liberty ;  and  when  dusk  came,  under  the  direction  of 
two  or  three  individuals,  they  closed  up  to  the  immediate  vicinity  of 
the  rebel  depot.  Suddenly  the  doors  of  the  malt-house  were  flung 
open,  musquets,  blunderbusses,  and  pikes,  were  indiscriminately 
handed  out,  and  every  man  seized  whatever  weapon  accident  pre- 
sented, without  any  consideration  as  to  whether  he  could  use  it 
effectively  or  not. 

Dressed  in  the  uniform  he  had  selected,  green  with  yellow  facings, 
the  wild  enthusiast  joined  the  rabble  he  had  armed,  and  issuing  from 
the  lane,  they  entered  the  chief  thoroughfare  through  the  Liberty, 
called  Thomas  Street.  Emmett  must  have  been  actually  mad,  for 
without  any  defined  plan  of  action,  settled  purpose,  or  ulterior  ob- 
ject, he  rushed  with  his  banditti  on  the  town.  Their  proceedings 
appeared  rather  to  resemble  the  muck  of  a  Malay,  than  the  opera- 
tions of  a  regulated  conspiracy.  The  first  victim  they  encountered 
was  Colonel  Brown  of  the  21st  Fusileers,  «[id  without  a  cause  or 
even  a  question,  they  pulled  him  from  the  saddle,  and  piked  him  to 
death.  Would  that  their  atrocities  had  ended  witl\  a  solitary  mur- 
der.    A   travelling  carriage  was  met,  stopped,  and  its  occupants 


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552  ROBERT   EMMETT   AND   ARTHUR  AYLMER; 

dragged  out.  One  passenger,  a  young  lady,  was  permitted  to  escape 
without  injury  or  insult;  but  the  mildest  judge  who  ever  tried  a 
criminal  was  mortally  wounded  by  these  savages ;  and  his  nephew, 
an  estimable  clergyman,  murdered  on  the  spot. 

^^  He,  the  wretched  cause  of  aU,  saw  too  late 
The  ruin  that  his  rashness  wrought," 

and  found  that  to  evoke  a  lawless  mob  was  easy,  as  to  repress  their 
ferocity  was  impracticable.  In  vain  he  appealed  to  his  ruffian  fol- 
lowers, in  their  tumultuary  roar  of  savage  exultation,  his  remon- 
strances were  drowned,  his  voice  unheard.  He  witnessed  the  white- 
haired  veteran,  the  merciful  dispenser  of  the  law,  the  blameless 
minister  of  religion,  all  ruthlessly  done  to  death.  Half  fainting  at 
the  horror  of  the  scene,  he  staggered  against  the  shutters  of  a  shop 
window,  when,  like  the  pressure  of  a  smith's  vice,  an  arm  grasped  his 
own,  and  tbe  well-known  voice  of  Aylmer  fiercely  exclaimed,  ^'  Vil- 
lain I  have  you  banded  me  with  murderers  ?"  Conscience  makes 
cowards  of  us  all,  and  so  do  circumstances  occasionally.  The  close 
of  Emmett's  wild  career,  his  prison  hours,  his  bearing  when  on  trial, 
and  the  last  sad  scene  of  all,  evinced  a  Roman  fortitude.  But  now, 
horror-stricken  at  barbarities  he  could  not  restrain,  while  the  fearful 
consequences  of  his  mad  attempt  burst  upon  him  in  their  terrible 
reality,  these  annihilated  the  self-possession  of  a  man  who,  with  the 
devotion  of  a  Decius  united  a  gentleness  of  disposition  that  recoiled 
from  the  effusion  of  one  drop  of  blood,  and,  totally  unmanned,  the  en- 
thusiast muttered  in  a  broken  voice,  *^  Ah,  Aylmer,  that,  the  un- 
kindest  cut  of  all,  was  not  wanted.  I  am  wretched,  desperate,  de- 
graded, but  still  no  murderer  in  intention.     Arthur,  I  am  no  villain." 

Rapid  as  lightning  glances  across  the  sky,  the  true  state  of  mind 
of  his  weak  and  misguided  friend  flashed  upon  his  warm-hearted 
countryman,  and  a  kindly  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  a  voice  that  had 
lost  its  recent  bitterness  replied,  <<  No,  no,  forgive  me,  Emmett 
You  know  that  my  temper  has  never  known  control.  And — curses 
on  the  ruffians  I  that  old  man's  butchery  would — but  see  here,  too," 
— and  as  he  spoke,  a  girl  rushed  wildly  towards  him.  At  a  glance, 
dress,  look,  and  manner,  all  proclaimed  her  to  be  a  gentlewoman. 
It  was  the  niece  of  the  murdered  judge,  the  sister  of  the  butchered 
clergyman.  As  she  hurried  wildly  past,  a  ruffian  more  brutal  than 
his  fellows,  and  half  intoxicated,  caught  hold  of  her  light  dress.  Her 
scream  was  answered  by  an  imprecation,  when  Aylmer  sprang  for- 
ward, struck  the  fellow  to  the  ground,  and  while  the  mob  made  a 
forward  movement  in  one  direction,  the  fair  captive  escaped  in  the 
opposite  one.  Heedless  of  an  attempt  made  by  the  prostrate  culprit 
to  discharge  a  pistol  at  the  lady*s  deliverer,  Aylmer  wrenched  the 
weapon  from  his  hand,  tore  away  the  frieze  great  coat  which  was 
hanging  loosely  across  his  arm,  and  flung  it  to  his  friend.  **  There," 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  **  Conceal  that  gaudy  dress,  and  let  us  hurry 
from  this  scene  of  butchery." 

**  How  can  I  leave  these  wretched  people>  brutal  as  they  have 
proved  themselves?"  returned  the  unhappy  man,  who  felt  that  he 
had  been  the  means  of  producing  this  sanguinary  (fmetite. 

**  If  you  do  not  leave  them,  they  will  soon  leave  you,"  was  the 
sarcastic  reply.    "  The  first  flint  snapped  by  loyalist  or  soldier  in 


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OR,    DUBLIN   IN    1803.  553 

their  front,  will  be  the  signal  for  a  general  dispersion.  Rest  assured 
that  villains  who  slaughter  unresisting  victims^  will  never  stay  to 
look  a  brave  man  in  the  face.     Come,  let  us  hurry  off." 

"  And  whither  ?    Where  can  we  head  to  ?  " 

"  My  purpose  leads  to  Wicklow,"  returned  Aylmer ;  **  and  in  the 
mountains  you  may  find  temporary  shelter,  and  possibly  escape  from 
the  kingdom,  when  the  vengeance  of  the  executive  shall  be  gorged." 

Emmett,  whose  self-control  seemed  altogether  fled,  mechanically 
obeyed  his  bolder  comrade,  and  flung  the  grey  cota-more  over  his 
showy  uniform  ;  but,  ere  he  had  made  a  second  step  in  the  direction 
that  Aylmer  pointed,  a  voice  was  heard  in  front  of  the  mob  to  holloa 
''  Stand  ! "  Half  a  dozen  spattering  shots  instantly  followed  the 
summons,  and  the  effect  upon  the  rabble  was  precisely  what  bad  been 
anticipated  by  his  adviser ;  for,  in  headlong  flight,  stragglers  from 
the  main  body  hurried  rapidly  to  the  rear. 

As  it  appeared  afterwards,  this  check  to  the  insurgents  was  but  a 
momentary  one.  A  police  magistrate,  hearing  loose  reports  of  a 
popular  disturbance,  hurried  to  the  scene  of  riot,  and  with  ten  or 
twelve  assistants  only,  and  these  indiflerently  armed.  Finding  himself 
•placed  unexpectedly  in  the  presence  of  a  formidable  band,  he  boldly 
became  assailant ;  and,  before  the  mob  had  recovered  from  the  sur- 
prise a  sudden  attack  produces,  the  stout  functionary  and  his  myrmi- 
dons effected  an  able  and  a  safe  retreat.  The  boldest  ruflians,  as 
might  be  supposed,  were  now  in  front;  and,  encouraged  by  the 
numerical  weakness  of  their  opponents,  pressed  forward  themselves, 
and  called  upon  their  panic-stricken  comrades  to  ''Come  on !"  Some 
obeyed  the  call,  but  others  were  already  beyond  the  range  of  hear- 
ing. For  a  few  minutes  more  the  flame  of  rebellion  might  be  said  to 
scintillate,  but  another  and  more  sanguinary  collision  followed,  and 
the  insurrection  ended,  as  it  commenced — in  blood. 

Although  more  than  three  years  had  elapsed  since  the  suppression 
of  the  rebellion  of  '98,  the  Irish  capital  presented  appearances  of  a 
military  occupation.  Pickets  at  stated  hours  patrolled  the  streets, 
and  detached  parties  of  regular  infantry  in  diflerent  quarters  had 
guard-houses,  either  intended  to  connect  their  barracks,  or,  in  the 
remoter  districts  of  the  metropolis,  keep  surveillance  over  those  who 
were  still  considered  as  being  disaffected  to  the  government.  On  the 
evening  of  the  23rd  of  June,  a  picket  of  the  Welsh  Fusileers  were 
going  their  customary  rounds,  when,  attracted  by  the  firing  in  Tho- 
mas-street, the  officer  in  command  hurried  to  the  spot,  and,  on  de- 
bouching from  Mass-lane,  encountered  the  insurgents.  A  bold  ruffian, 
who  appears  to  have  assumed  the  command,  called  in  a  loud  voice, 
"  MusKeteers,  to  the  front  I " 

**  But  none  did  come,  though  he  did  call  for  them,** 

while  the  officer  commanding  the  picket,  like  a  stout  soldier,  and  one 
who  "understood  bis  trade,"*  instantly  commenced  street- firing. t 
The  f  apid  and  sustained  fire  of  the  soldiery  was  answered  by  half. 

*  A  favourite  and  expressive  phrase  of  Napoleon^ 

f  Street-firing  is  practised  hj  troops  in  small  numbers,  who  can  only  show  a 
narrow  front.  When  the  first  files  fire,  they  wheel  round  the  flanks  of  the  party, 
re-loading  as  they  retire.  The  succeeding  files  also  fire  and  fall  back,  and  before 
the  leading  files  have  discharged  their  muskets,  the  rear-most  have  reloaded. 
Hence,  the  fusilade  is  never  abated. 

VOL.  XXIII.  T  T 


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554  ROBERT  EMMETT  AND   ARTHUR   AYLMER; 

a*docen  stragffling  shots^  when  the  mob  broke  totally,  and  sauve  qui 
peui  became^e  order  of  the  evening. 

As  the  rabble  rushed  tumultuously  (>ast,  flinging  their  weapons 
away,  and  each  man  adding  terror  to  his  companion's  speed,  which 
an  unexpected  volley  from  a  dozen  yeomen  and  loyalists  they  en- 
countered at  a  comer  had  fearfully  augmented,  Aylmer  whispered 
to  his  friend, 

"  Said  I  not  truly,  Emmett  ?" 

No  answer  was  returned ;  but  a  bitter  groan,  that  bespoke  hopes 
prostrated  and  air-built  castles  levelled  to  the  earth,  told  what  the 
inly  feelings  of  the  miserable  and  misguided  enthusiast  were. 

They  reached  the  canal-bridge  unchallenged  by  any  of  the  patrols, 
and  found  there  six  or  eight  of  the  better  order  of  small  farmers, 
who  had  ridden  that  evening  to  the  scene  of  action ;  but,  wise  in 
their  generation,  they  had  left  their  horses  outside  the  cordon  of  the 
pickets,  and  in  charge  of  two  or  three  peasants.  Fortunately  for  the 
rebel  leader  and  his  companion,  a  couple  of  unclaimed  nags  were 
herded  with  the  others,  their  proprietors  having  been  so  much  con- 
fused  with  firing,  fear,  and  whiskey  as  to  lose  themselves  among  the 
narrow  streets  and  blind  alleys  of  the  Liberty.  No  time  to  raise  any 
question  touching  right  of  property  remained.  The  heat-iO'amu 
was  heard,  repeated,  and  re-repeated ;  the  trumpet "  turn-out"  came 
sharply  on  the  ear  through  the  calm  of  summer  evening ;  and  Ayl- 
mer and  the  leader  of  the  mad  imeuie  mounted  the  spare  horses,  and 
rode  rapidly  off  in  the  direction  of  the  Wicklow  mountains,  the  whole 
party  not  exceeding  a  dozen  men. 

Where  were  the  masses  of  disaffected  men  who  had  risen,  or  were 
expected  to  rise,  when  the  tocsin  of  freedom  sounded  ? — where  were 
they  ?     Well  might  echo  answer,  "  Where  f " 

Never  did  a  party,  who  had  determined  to  annihilate  a  settled 
government  and  "  reform  the  state,"  exhibit  a  more  crest-fallen  ap- 
pearance than  poor  £mmett  and  his  rabble  escort,  as  they  spurred 
towards  the  Wicklow  hills  by  the  most  unfrequented  roads.  Their 
speed  was  that  of  heartless  fugitives ;  but,  as  if  to  add  burlesque  to 
misfortune,  the  leader  of  ''-a  broken  host"  was  still  addressed  as 
'*  general ;"  and  now  and  again,  when  the  coarse  frieze  eota-more  was 
blown  aside,  the  flaunting  uniform  underneath  presented  its  ridi- 
culous contrast. 

It  was  extraordinary  how  long  after  the  suppression  of  the  rebel- 
lion of  '98  the  embers  of  disaffection  smouldered  in  the  mountain- 
ranges  of  Wicklow.  Within  a  dozen  miles  of  the  metropolis  banded 
outlaws  found  a  shelter,  and  with  impunity  plundered  the  low  coun- 
try, and  levied,  like  the  Highland  caterans  of  old,  a  black  mail  from 
the  farmers  who  were  located  in  this  dangerous  vicinity.  In  vain 
had  the  Irish  executive  fulminated  proclamations,  and  offered  large 
rewards  for  the  persons  of  these  brigands*  dead  or  alive.  But,  with 
extraordinary  fidelity,  the  mountaineers  resisted  monetary  tempta- 
tion; and  in  every  case  the  outlawed  chiefs  who  fell  within  the 
grasp  of  justice  could  refer  their  captivity  to  accident  alone,  or  their 
own  want  of  common  prudence. 

It  was  past  midnight  when  the  fugitives  reached  a  lonely  farm- 
house in  one  of  the  wildest  of  the  mountain  glens.  Hours  before  the 
arrival  of  the  party,  the  family  had  retired  to  rest;  and,  when  awak- 
ened by  the  trampling  of  horses'  feet,  they  felt  no  alarm,  considering 


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OR,  DUBLIN  IN   1803.  555 

it  a  thing  of  no  unusual  occurrence,  namely^  a  night- vidt  from  roy- 
alist draffoons  in  search  of  some  of  the  proscribed.  At  the  first  knock 
the  family  were  instantly  in  motion^  the  door  was  opened,  the  em- 
hers,  smouldering  on  the  hearth,  were  heaped  with  fresh  fuel,  nume- 
rous rushes  were  lighted,  and  preparations  promptly  made  to  offer 
to  the  wayfarers  any  refreshment  that  the  nouse  contained.  The 
latter,  indeed,  was  considered  a  matter-of-course  affair ;  for,  Tyrian 
or  Trojan  who  sought  the  glen,  claimed  hospitality  alike,  and  the 
trooper's  scarlet  and  outlaw's  necessity  rendered  the  demand  equally 
imperious.  Of  the  twain,  the  trooper  was  the  more  unprofitable 
customer.  Were  the  horseman  in  good  temper,  and  the  peasant- 
girl  pretty,  a  kiss  might  be  given  in  full  acquittance  of  all  demands 
in  law  or  equity,  and  ''  he  laughed,  and  he  rode  away ;"  while  the 
outlaw,  if  he  did  not  pay  in  meal  would  pay  in  malt,  as  the  old  saw 
goes.  If  this  night  a  desperate  onslaught  was  made  upon  the  herds- 
man's flitch  by  half-a-dozen  half- starved  freebooters,  on  the  next,  a 
fat  wedder  was  left  in  the  barn,  with  directions  to  whip  the  skin  off' 
with  the  least  possible  delay ;  and  many  a  tenant,  when  driven  for 
rent,  obtained  the  money  which  released  his  impounded  cattle  from 
the  pocket  of  some  generous  outlaw.  No  wonder,  then,  that  the  wild 
peasantry  of  the  hills,  to  the  desperate  men  who  sought  shelter  there, 
bore  true  allegiance ;  and,  though  every  robber-haunt  was  known  to 
hundreds,  to  personal  punishment  or  rich  reward  the  mountaineers 
proved  equally  impassive. 

Had  the  belated  visitors  proved  royalists,  the  same  alacrity  to 
meet  their  wants  would  have  been  exhibited.  The  broadsword,  the 
shoulder-belt,  and  the  rope, — and  in  those  days  all  were  freely  used 
in  cases  of  contumacy, — stimulate  men's  exertions  marvellously ;  but 
when,  in  half  the  party,  old  acquaintances  were  recognised,  right 
cheerfully  the  whole  family  applied  themselves  to  prepare  a  sub- 
stantial supper.  Emmett,  Aylroer,  and  a  few  others  were  conducted 
to  an  inner  room,  the  others  remaining  in  the  kitchen ;  and  while 
the  good-wife  and  her  daughters  took  post  beside  the  frying-pan,  on 
which  many  an  egg  and  rasher  hissed,  the  fugitives  detailed,  in 
under  tones,  the  strange  and  tragic  events  of  that  disastrous  evening. 

Presently,  supper  was  served  in  the  inner  apartment,  plainly,  but 
comfortably.  Nothing  sharpens  the  appetite  more  keenly  than  a 
night-ride  m  the  mountains ;  and,  indeed,  it  would  be  hard  to  say 
whether  the  rebel  chief  or  the  deserted  lover  did  ampler  justice  to 
the  refreshments  placed  in  rude  abundance  before  them.  Emmett, 
fevered  throughout  the  day,  as  hope  and  apprehension  obtained  the 
mastery  by  turns,  had  felt  ill-inclined  to  eat;  and,  when  the  coarse 
table  in  the  rebel  arsenal  was  roughly  spread,  would  the  recollection 
that,  at  that  moment,  the  bridal  dejeuner  of  the  false  fair  one  was 
crowded  by  the  SlUe  of  fashion,  and  she,  *'  the  cynosure  of  wonder- 
ing eyes,"  in  all  the  brilliancy  of  beauty,  enhanced  the  banquet's 
revelry  with  wreathed  smiles;   would  these,  recalled  to  memory, 

Erovoke  poor  Aylmer's  appetite  ?     Both  freely  drank  their  wine ; 
ut  desperate  excitement  and  blighted  love  alike  set  the  grape's 
boasted  influence  at  defiance. 

When  the  meal  ended,  an  earthen  grey-beard,  filled  with  illicit 
whiskey,  was  placed  upon  the  table ;  and,  after  a  portion  of  its  con- 
tents had  been  poured  into  a  smaller  vessel,  it  was  removed  to  the 
kitchen  to  refresh  the  subordinate  insurgents.    In  a  few  minutes 

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556  ROBERT   EMMETT   AND   ARTHUR   AYLMER; 

afterwards,  those  who  had  supped  with  their  leader  and  his  friend 
rose,  quitted  the  apartment,  and  left  them  tete-d^tile. 

"  How  goes  the  night  ? "  said  Aylmer ;  "  it  is  now  two  months  or 
so  since  I  have  been  delivered  from  the  encumbrance  of  a  watch. 
I  wonder  who  the  devil  calls  himself  at  present  master  of  mine  ? 
Mine  ?— no,  'twas  fairly  purchased ;  and,  faith,  it  cost  me  a  pang  or 
two  to  part  with  it:  for  when  my  poor  mother's  initials  on  the  case 
met  my  eye,  I  was  half-prompted  to  snatch  it  from  the  counter.  But 
— I  had  not  dined  for  a  couple  of  days ;— damnation  I" 

He  sprang  from  the  beechen  chair,  and  made  a  stride  or  two 
across  the  chamber ;  then,  as  if  a  moment  were  sufficient  to  restore 
that  awful  composure  which  despair  so  frequently  possesses,  he 
resumed  his  seat,  and,  in  a  low  calm  voice,  continued. 

'*  Two  o'clock — ha !  morning  is  well  advanced,  and  I  have  some 
fifteen  miles  to  travel.  Fare  thee  well,  my  dear  £mmett — better  for- 
tune attend  thee !  Should  a  chance  present  itself,  hasten  from  the 
hands  of  the  Philistines,  and  rest  assured  that  none  will  more  gladly 
receive  the  tidings  of  your  escape  than  I." 

"  Of  that  no  hope  remains/'  returned  the  poor  enthusiast  with  a 
sigh  ;  "  my  history  will  soon  be  closed.    Well^leath  is  a  penalty 
entailed  upon  existence ;  and,  in  the  poet's  words, 
<  I  set  my  life  upon  a  CMt, 
And  I  will  stand  the  hazard  of  the  die.* 

But  you,  Aylmer,  all  favours  your  escape ;  your  knowledge  of  the 
mountains,  your  family  influence,  your-*" 

"  Stop  ! — I  will  anticipate  the  rest ;  the  uncle's  loyalty  would  be, 
forsooth,  a  set-off  against  the  nephew's  treason!"  exclaimed  the 
young  man,  passionately.  "  You  misunderstand  me  altogether,  Em- 
mett ;  think  not  that,  for  a  moment,  I  fancied  your  hair-brained 
pnpect  could  succeed.  Bah!  the  thought  would  have  been  close 
akin  to  madness.  Why,  compared  with  yours.  Jack  Cade's  was  a 
promising  attempt  No ! — even  my  private  feelings  politically  tend- 
ed in  an  opposite  direction.  I  am  a  rebel — a  rebel  from  revenge  ; 
and  yet  the  blood  that  courses  through  my  veins  is  orange  to  the 
drop." 

''  Then,  under  what  strange  and  conflicting  impulse  did  you  act  ?  " 
inquired  the  enthusiastic  leader  of  the  wild  imeule;  *'why  join  a 
cause  alien  to  your  own  principles  ?" 

"  I  '11  answer  you,  in  our  national  mode,  by  interrogatories,"  said 
Aylmer,  coolly.  **  By  what  right  did  that  capricious  old  man  invest 
me  with  imaginary  wealth,  and  pkce  me  in  high  position,  and  then, 
when  fancy  changed,  shatter  the  clay-constructed  puppet  into  poU 
sherds  ?  What  was  the  head  and  front  of  my  oflendmg  ? — I  received 
an  indiffnity,  and  resented  it.  Could  I  have  brooked  ofl*ence,  and 
mingled  in  society  with  gentlemen — Irish  gentlemen  ?  'Twas  but 
a  flimsy  pretext— a  mere  apology  to  cast  me  ofl*.  Before  my  uncle 
had  reached  my  years,  he  had  been  twice  upon  the  ground  himself; 
av,  and  in  both  cases  he  was  the  challenger.  'Twas  dotard  love 
that  wrought  my  ruin  ;  an  artful  girl  played  her  game  too  well,  and 
the  old  man  fancied  that  sixteen  could  love  sixty.  I  was  in  the  way ; 
a  scapegoat  was  wanting  for  a  hymeneal  sacrifice— I  was  rendered  at 
the  altar,  and  youthful  beauty  swore  fealty  to  old  age.  Heavens ! 
could  the  driveller  but  know  that  she,  the  idol  of  his  love,  six  months 


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OR,    DUBLIN   IN    1803.  857 

before  she  placed  her  hand  in  his,  had  hung  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
discarded  nephew,  confessed  the  secret  of  her  heart,  and —  But, 
hold !  what  followed  must  never  pass  these  lips.  £nough — ven- 
geance before  now  has  been  exacted  before  the  injury  was  inflicted.*' 

Again  he  leaped  from  the  chair,  and  strode  through  the  apart> 
ment.  £mmett  for  a  minute  remained  still ;  but  Aylmer,  by  a  sud- 
den mastery  of  himself,  controlled  his  feelings,  replenished  a  full 
tumbler,  drank  the  diluted  alcohol,  and  then  calmly  continued, — 

"  £mmett,  the  parting  hour  is  come." 

"  But  what  is  your  purpose  ?  What  will  you  do  ?"  inquired  the 
rebel  chief. 

'*  Change  the  house  of  feasting  into  one  of  sorrow.  This  evening 
the  heir  of  Castle  Aylmer  receives  the  rite  of  baptism.  Half-a-dozen 
of  the  peerage  will  grace  the  ceremony;  and  could  I,  a  loving 
cousin,  at  this  high  festival  absent  myself?" 

"  And  do  you  thus  coolly  rush,  into  danger,  and  seek  a  halter  ?" 
asked  his  wondering  companion. 

"  No — no,"  was  the  calm  reply,  "  Jack  Hangman  will  never  assist 
at  my  toilet,  nor  hemp  enclose  d^is  throat" 

"Then  you  will  ape  the  Roman, — and  suicide — "  £mmett 
paused. 

"  Pish  I  I  scorn  the  thought.  Oh,  no ;  I  am  a  fatalist ;  and  at 
three  periods  of  life  —  at  seven,  fourteen,  and  twenty-one — my 
destiny  was  foretold.  Lead — lead — lead!  I  hoped  the  bullet  would 
have  reached  its  mark  last  evening ;  but  we  must  wait  the  fatal  time. 
What  ho  I  without  there  I     Come,  honest  host,  my  horse." 

"  So  late,  sir  ?  Nay,  rest  a  bit.  After  this  uproar  in  the  city — 
which  I  have  heard  of  but  now — idle  people  will  be  a- foot,"  said  the 
landlord,  with  kindly  courtesy. 

"No  fear  for  me,"  said  Aylmer,  with  a  bitter  smile;  "a  line  of 
honest  Juvenal  ensures  my  safety,— « 

'  Contabit  vacuus  coram  latrone  viator.* 

There  is  sound  Latin  for  you, — ay,  and  sound  sense." 

The  host  departed. 

"  Aylmer,  are  you  acting  wisely  ?" 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  anybody  since  the  days  of  Solomon  who 
did  so  ?"  and  he  laughed ;  but  that  laugh  was  one  of  bitter  import. 
"Farewell!" 

The  word  struck  ominously  on  the  ear  to  which  it  was  addressed. 

"  Farewell  1"  returned  the  young  enthusiast.  "  Shall  we  not  meet 
again  ?" 

"  Never — in  this  world !"  and  each  word  was  deliberately  pro- 
nounced. 

"  Your  horse  is  ready,"  said  the  landlord. 

Both  hands  were  again  interchanged  by  the  fugitives,  and  in  an- 
other minute  hoof-tramps  were  heard  without,  until  a  bending  in  the 
road  shut  out  the  sounds  of  the  receding  traveller. 

With  Aylmer,  and  not  with  Emmett,  our  story  lies ;  and  a  brief 
paragraph  will  tell  the  latter's  history. 

For  a  few  days  he  remained  under  safe  keeping  in  the  Wicklow 
hills ;  but,  wearied  of  restraint,  he  returned  to  the  outskirts  of  the 
metropolis.  Sirr,  a  man  of  infamous  celebrity — ^the  Vidocq  of  the 
Irish  executive,  discovered  his  retreat,  and  found  it  fit  time  to  take 


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558  ROBERT   EMMETT   AND   ARTHUR  AYLMER. 

him.  Unlike  the  lion-like  spirit  of  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,  Em- 
mett's  was  a  dreamy  and  romantic  courage,  which  unfitted  him  for 
fierce  aggression.  He  made  a  bootless  effort  at  escape  ;  was  easily 
captur^;  and  led,  in  quick  succession,  to  Newgate,  the  court  of 
justice,  and  the  scaffold. 

If  ever  man  was  monomaniac,  that  man  was  Robert  Emmett. 
Before  Aylmer  had  ridden  half-a-dozen  miles  morning  began  to 
break,  and  hills  and  valleys,  with  which  from  boyhood  he  had  been 
familiar,  in  the  grey  haze  of  dawning  day  gradually  became  visible. 
Every  feature  in  the  opening  landscape  brought  with  it  a  painful  re- 
collection. On  that  moor  he  had  shot  grouse,  and  in  yon  lough  had 
often  filled  his  fishing-basket.  Then  manhood's  cares  had  not  assail- 
ed him.  He  was  springing  into  life,  with  all  the  personal  and  acci- 
dental advantages  which  are  supposed  the  stepping-stones  to  human 
happiness.  He  topped  a  rising  ground,  and  an  expansive  surface  of 
champaign  country  lay  beneath.  He  started  at  the  view.  The  wide 
domain, — the  towering  chimneys  of  a  mansion,  peeping  over  woods 
the  growth  of  centuries, — ^younger  plantations  extending  far  as  the 
eye  could  range, — rich  meadows  interspersing  corn-lands ;  all  these, 
but  one  year  since,  he  believed  to  be  his  own  inheritance.  What 
was  he  now  ?  Ruined,  in  the  very  opening  of  manhood, — a  skulk- 
ing fugitive  at  this  moment,— and,  by  noon,  a  proclaimed  traitor  ; 
not  one  solitary  shilling  in  his  purse,  and  the  ownership  of  the  horse 
he  rode  unknown ! 

*'  Is  this  a  dream,  or  is  it  sad  reality  ?"  he  muttered  as  he  sprang 
from  the  saddle,  and  threw  himself  upon  a  rustic  bench;  hours 
passed  in  reckless  dreaminess.  Gradually  the  household  bustle  in- 
creased ;  window-blinds  were  withdrawn ;  and  servants  passed  and 
repassed  the  casements  of  the  castle.  With  every  apartment  he  was 
familiar ;  that,  had  been  his  play-room  when  a  boy,— this,  his  cham- 
ber when  a  man.  The  breakfast-bell  sounded.  How  often  had  he 
answered  to  that  well-remembered  summons.  Another  hour  wore  on. 
The  hall-door  opened ;  a  nurse-maid  and  an  infant  came  out  from 
beneath  the  vestibule ;  a  lady  followed,  and,  next  moment,  the  tall, 
spare  figure  of  his  uncle  caught  his  view.  He  saw  the  old  man  fondle 
the  baby-heir,  and  tap  his  young  wife's  cheek  most  playfully.  Ayl- 
mer's  brow  darkened ;  his  lips  were  colourless,  but  his  eyes  flashed 
fire.  He  turned  from  a  sight  that  was  blasting.  Again  he  involun- 
tarily looked.  The  nurse  and  child  were  pacing  the  sweep  before 
the  house,  while  the  proud  father  was  toying  with  his  lady's  hazel 
locks,  and  evincing  aJl  that  ardour  of  affection,  which,  scarce  ex- 
cusable in  youthful  love,  in  chilly  age  becomes  disgusting. 

^'By  heaven!  I  shall  go  mad,"  exclaimed  the  disinherited  one. 
'*  Oh  !  could  I  not  dash  thy  raptures,  old  drivelling  dotard ! — But, 
hold !  who  comes  spurring  at  fiery  speed  ?  A  dragoon.  He  pre- 
sents a  letter.  The  old  man  starts  back  a  pace,  and  my  gentle  aunt 
assumes  the  attitude  of  astonishment.  'Tis  intelligence  of  last 
night's  ^tneute,  and  probably  announces,  head  of  the  Aylmers !  that 
he  whom  you  once  regarded  with  so  much  pride  is  now  a  fugi- 
tive, an  outcast,  and  a  traitor  1" 

As  Aylmer  spoke,  his  uncle  signed  to  the  horseman  to  repair  to 
the  stables,  and,  in  evident  confusion,  hurried  into  the  house,  follow- 
ed by  his  youthful  dame. 


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MEMOIRS  AND  ANECDOTES  OP  TUB  EIGHTEENTH 
CENTURY.  ♦ 

To  those  who  rule  themteliwi  en  the  Epicurean  principle  of  ^^Af" 
ter  us,  the  Deluge  /"  it  is  of  small  consequence  whether  or  not  some 
Gold  KeyorGiSdfltick,  some  Lord  President,  or  honourable  Clerk  of 
the  Privy  €0«ncil  be  taking  notes  of  our  own  time  for  the  edification 
-of  Gtfwers,  and  Percys,  and  Howards  still  unborn.  It  may  possibly 
be  merely  a  touch  of  the  bilious  humour  of  the  quadruped  who  de- 
clared that  the  *'  grapes  were  sour/'  which  induces  our  fancy  that 
the  present  days  are  less  favourable  to  this  species  of  composition 
than  those  when  a  Suffolk  was  succeeded  by  a  Walmoden,  or  when 
a  Walpole  had  an  Ossory  to  write  to.  Such,  however,  is  in  some 
measure  our  creed.  Public  affairs,  we  firmly  believe,  are  managed 
with  more  integrity  and  openness  than  formerly :  private  scandal  has 
grown  a  vulgar  thing,  been  brought  into  discredit  by  the  ,  and 

the  ,  and  the         ,  also  by  the  floggings  and  the  legal  proceed- 

ings which  have  wasted  to  nought  the  sarcasm  of  their  editors.  Mr. 
Rowland  Hill  has  bidden  the  letter  shrink  into  the  note.  The  Railway 
King  and  "  his  faction  "  have  destroyed  the  remoteness  and  provin- 
cial air  of  the  country-house.  The  electrical  telegraph  shoots  news 
"  as  rapid  as  an  echo,"  from  court  to  court,  till  political  intelligence 
is  diffused  throughout  Europe  sympathetically,  as  if  a  Michael  Scott 
ordained  it 

" when  in  Salamancft's  cave,*' 

Him  listed  his  magic  wand  to  wave. 

The  bells  would  ring  in  Notre  Dame. 

All  these  characteristics  and  inventions  are  so  many  possible 
dissuasions  to  the  writer  of  memoirs.  Matter  can  never  be  want- 
ing, but  it  ma/  be  otherwise  discussed  and  disposed  of  than  in 
<< sealed  boxes"  which  are  not  to  be  opened  for  a  century.  At 
least  such  flattering  unction  ^'that  their  children  will  fare  worse 
than  themselves "  may  be  laid  to  their  souls,  by  those  whose  curi- 
osity with  regard  to  their  contemporaries  must  needs  die  unsatisfied. 
It  has  also  the  valuable  effect  of  heightening  the  zest  with  which 
we  fall  upon  records  of  the  past  century,  over  which  the  two  works 
here  coupled  range  widely. 

Yet  never  did  books  less  deserve  to  be  classed  among  the  library 
of  dead  letters  than  these  meditations  of  Hervey  (not  among  the 
tombs,  but  in  drawing-rooms  and  ropral  closets)  uian  these  epistles 
of  Horace  addressed  to  no  Lcelius,  (still  less  to  a  L(BUa  ;  "  the  Chud- 
leigh,"  his  favourite  antipathy,  monopolizing  that  name,)  but  to  the 
graceful,  fashionable,  kindly  Anna,  Countess  of  Ossory.  The  coin- 
cidences they  illustrate  between  the  last  century  and  this,  are  many 
and  curious ;  the  vivacity  of  their  writers  is  a  spirit,  the  aroma  of 
which  no  bottling  up  "  in  an  ancient  bin  "  can  transmute  into  dul- 
ness.  Progressives  and  Retrospectives  (to  use  the  class  jargon  of  the 
day)  must  alike  rejoice  in  the  disinterment  of  chronicles  so  full  of 

*  Memoirs  of  the  Reign  of  George  the  Second,  from  his  Accession  to  the  Death 
of  Queen  Caroline.  By  John  Lord  Hervey.  Edited,  from  the  original  manu- 
script at  Ickworth,  by  the  Right  Hon.  John  Wilson  Croker,  LL.D.,  F.R.S.  2 
vols.   Murray. 

Letters  addressed  to  the  Countess  of  Ossory,  from  the  year  1769  to  1797.  Bv 
Horace  Walpole,  Lord  Otford.  Now  printed  from  original  MSS.  Edited,  witn 
Notes,  by  the  Right  Hon.  R.  Vernon  Smith,  M.P.    2  vols.    Bentley.  r^^^^l^ 

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660  MEMOIRS  AND   ANECDOTES  OF 

persons  and  portraits, — of  warnings  and  corroborations.  They  also 
possess  a  special  charm  for  the  literary  student  and  artificer,  to  linger 
on  which  for  a  moment  is  not  superfluous. 

It  is  impossible  to  read  these  Memoirs  and  Letters,  without  feeling 
the  charm  of  their  style,  by  contrast.  **  The  genteel "  in  writing  has 
of  late  been  too  largely  laughed  at ;  *'  the  unwashed  "  (to  avail  our- 
selves of  Voltaire's  *'  dirty  Unen  "  simile  applied  by  him  to  the  king  of 
Prussia's  MSS.)  has  been  too  blindly  mistaken  for  sense,  nature,  and 
manhood  in  authorship.  The  coarse  words  and  indelicate  anecdotes 
which  ^eck  the  pages  of  the  dainty  Lord  Hervey  and  (more  sparing. 
1^)  the  letters  of  the  still  finer  Wit  of  Strawberry  Hill,  must  not  be 
cited  in  contradiction  of  our  assertion.  They  belonged  to  a  period 
when  chaste  and  virtuous  ladies  (as  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  recorded) 
could  sit  with  pleasure  to  hear  the  shameless  novels  of  Aphra  Behn 
read  aloud  to  a  society  less  nice  in  its  reserves  and  concealments  than 
ours.  These  admissions  and  commissions  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  old  art  of  writing.  We  should  be  the  last  of  critics  to  defend 
them.  Too  thankfully  would  we  see  this  revived.  The  dislocated, 
ill-balanced,  fragmentary  fashion  of  talk,  which  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton 
has  so  pungently  satirized  in  his  ''  England  and  the  English  "  has 
been  too  largely  allowed  "  to  obtain  "  among  our  fashionable  authors ; 
nor  only  among  those  who  aspire  to  ephemeral  success,  but  also  among 
those  who  think,  teach,  legislate.  Are  we  not  justified,  indeed,  in  re- 
commending Lord  Hervey 's  elegance  and  purity  of  English  when 
we  find  accomplished  historians  and  profound  philosophers  unable 
to  content  themselves,  save  they  can  give  their  chronicles  and  reason- 
ings  the  dye  of  translations, — compounding  strange  words  after  the 
fashion  of  one  foreign  humourist,  mystifying  simple  thoughts  accord- 
ing to  the  cloudy  canons  of  another  ?  In  such  a  time  of  cosmopolitan 
licence,  mistake,  carelessness,  or  aflectation,  the  easy,  polished,  epi- 
grammatic English  of  these  Gentlemen  of  the  last  century  becomes 
doubly  welcome.  They  knew  how  to  drive  their  meaning  home 
without  needless  circuits:— how  to  report  a  good  story  without  being 
thrown  into  spasms  of  diversion  at  their  own  drollery.  Above  all, 
they  knew  tvhen  to  stop.  They  impress  by  the  charm  of  being  read- 
abU :  a  charm,  sad  to  say,  increasingly  rare  of  occurrence  in  contem* 
porary  literature,  and  for  which  we  at  least  shall  never  cease  to  sigh, 
till  we  fall  irretrievably  and  for  ever,  under  the  republican  reign  of 
Bad  Grammar  1 

Nor  had  the  Herveys  and  the  Walpoles  the  monopoly.  A  like 
virtue  pervades  the  heUes  lettres  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  century. 
Pope's  prose  periods  were  not  like  his  willows,  dishevelled  and  hang- 
ing down  "  something  poetical."  Lady  Mary  Wortley's  letters  are 
charming  in  the  ease  and  brilliancy  of  their  manner.  The  sophistica- 
tions of  Chesterfield  were  more  naturally  delivered  than  we  dare  de- 
liver our  truths  now-a-days.  Lady  Hervey's  communications  to  Mr. 
Morris  have  the  "  grace  of  propriety"  which,  as  Horace  Walpole  as- 
sures us,  never  forsook  the  writer  to  her  dying  day.  Selwyn,  though 
one  might  have  thought  he  had  left  himself  no  spirits,  shows  in  his 
correspondence  the  same  gentlemanly  vivacity  and  explicitness  as 
pointed  his  bon  mots.  Nay,  to  take  an  extreme  and  neglected  in- 
stance, let  us  turn  to  the  correspondence  of  two  ladies  of  quality, 
one  common-place,  the  other  pedantic, — we  mean  the  letters  of  the 
Ladies  Hertford  and  Pomfret,  including  the  Italian  tour  of  the  latter, 
— and  we  shall  find  them  better  written  than  many  a  subsequent  book 


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THE  EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY.  661 

of  travels  by  a  professed  Uitirateur.  In  fact,  the  good  English  of  this 
quality  was  the  rule,  not  the  exception,  until  Johnson  changed  the 
nishion  of  style.  But  we  must  not  be  seduced  into  a  lecture  on  taste 
when  our  design  was  merely  to  illustrate  a  coincidence  between  the 
two  writers  before  us ; — and  to  prove  that  the  family  resemblance, 
which  is  so  remarkable  in  these  memoirs  and  letters,  may  be  ascrib* 
able,  not  to  blood  relationship  on  the  part  of  their  authors  (as  gossips 
have  asserted,  with  what  autnority  it  were  fruitless  here  to  enquire,) 
so  much  as  to  the  general  influences  of  their  times. 

Opening  Lord  Hervey's  book,  we  can  merely  touch  upon  one  or 
two  points  calculated  to  interest  the  general  reader,  apart  from  the 
political  gossip  which  they  contain.  The  name  of  Mr.  Croker,  as 
editor  of  the  Ickworth  manuscript,  is  a  guarantee  for  care  and  dili- 
gence, if  not  for  that  absence  of  prejudice  which  is,  also,  so  desirable 
a  quality  in  all  cases  of  literary  superintendence.  But  the  Memoirs, 
by  what  is  omitted,  as  well  as  by  what  is  given,  speak  for  them- 
selves.  They  are  '^  full  as  an  egg  "  of  character.  The  King,  himself, 
pining  for  Hanoverian  pleasures,  till  one  wonders  how  he  would 
condescend  to  rule  '^  the  adjacent  islands  of  Great  Britain  and  Ire- 
land "  (as  the  simple  parson  of  the  Hebrides  was  used  to  call  them), 
— the  Queen,  who  checked  Lady  Suffolk,  her  husband's  mistress,  and 
was  checked  by  Lady  Sundon, — who  governed  the  King,  and  was 
governed  by  the  King's  ^09  komme,  his  coarse  man  of  business,  the 
redoubtable  Sir  Robert  Walpole, — the  Prince  of  Wales,  with  his 
headstronff  and  heinous  impertinences  (all  traces  of  his  personal 
quarrel  with  Lord  Hervey  having  been  carefully  removed  from  the 
manuscript, — ^if,  indeed,  they  were  ever  allowed  a  record  there,)  are 
all  living  and  breathing  portraits.  Then,  the  Excise  riots,  the  West- 
minster and  Edinburgh  mobs,  and  the  long  and  elaborate  tissue  of 
home  and  foreign,  parliamentary  and  household  intrigues  are  de- 
scribed with  all  the  vivacity  and  minuteness  of  persond  experience, 
if  not  with  all  the  judicial  odmness  and  reserve  of  truth.  Not  merely 
historical  research  proves,  but  instinct  also  secures  to  them,  a  larger 
share  of  credibility  than  belongs  to  the  eflbrts  of  many  a  more 
pompous  historian.  And,  though  it  may  be  all  very  well  for  the 
scholar  in  the  closet  to  talk  of  personal  influences  warping  the  sym- 
pathies and  powers  of  observation;  and,  though  the  politics  and 
philosophy  which  are  studied  by  state  adherents, 
*'  Upftain,  down  stairs, 
Aiid  in  my  lady's  chamber,*' 

are  open  to— nay,  demand — the  minutest  scrutiny  ere  they  are  to 
be  admitted  among  a  country's  valuable  muniments  and  records: 
they  have  still  one  advantage,  that  of  opportunity  enjoyed  by  their 
writers,  which  the  falseho^  of  Belial's  self,  did  he  hold  the  pen, 
could  not  utterly  neutralize,  nor  the  most  active  spirit  of  Revenge, 
did  it  point  the  attack,  render  valueless. 

If,  again,  we  give  ourselves  up  to  these  Memoirs,  as  a  mere  book 
to  read,  without  demanding  that  the  writer  shall  have  **  kissed  the 
Book  "  betwixt  chapter  and  chapter,  where  shall  we  find  novel  so  full 
of  character,  or  serious  comedy  richer  in  situation,  or  picture  more 
complete  in  colour  and  more  exquisite  in  finish?  Perhaps  the  world 
has  never  been  favoured  with  a  drearier  picture  of  court  life  than 
the  one  with  which  Lord  Hervey  presents  us.  The  <<Maintenon 
Letters"  sufficiently  showed  us  what  lay  beneath  the  "glitter  of  the 
gold  "  of  Versailles,  under  the  empire  of  him  who  played  the  King 

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562  XEMOmS  AND  ANECDOTES  OF 

better  than  most  monarchs.  The  Bumey  diary,  in  even  the  pordons 
selected  for  publication,  told  us  enough  of  the  dismal  monotony 
which  lies  like  a  spell  on  the  palace,— enough  of  the  tendency  to- 
wards  distortion  which  the  best  affections  of  nature  must  encounter 
when  power  and  party-spirit  come  between  parent  and  child.  But, 
this  record  of  Lord  Hervey's  is  unparagoned.  What  a  picture  do 
we  derive  from  it  of  that  striking  and  stately  woman,  Queen  Caro- 
line ! — what  a  story  of  a  life  of  secret  misery  and  outward  show,— of 
wearing,  incessant  intrigues,  to  be  counteracted  by  measures  no  less 
wary  and  ceaseless !  —  what  an  exhibition  of  violent  passions  trained 
into  a  degrading  tnbmissiveness,  which  could  almost  mistake  itself 
for  extittctioni — mkA  m  yevektion  of  a  strong  will  movi^g^p^pit. 
like  at  othersT  ploMwl  WWt  ^BBily  gnqps  mm  tnmmkai,^w^9n 
without  duty, — of  daughters  at  vaiiance, — ofa  husband,  whose  infi- 
delities the  wife  must  needs  encourage !  And  consider  the  framework 
of  all  this !  The  age,  in  general,  was  one  of  anxiety,  unsettlement,  and 
expectation.  There  were  plotting  Papists  in  corners,  who  might  at 
any  moment  turn  up  in  the  heart  of  London,  following  a  Stuart  on 
his  bold  way  to  St.  James's.  There  were  the  'prentices  of  the  City, 
impudently  disaffected  and  disrespectful ;  by  no  means  satisfied  to 
hear  in  silence  of  money  voted  to  old  favourites,  or  given  secretly 
to  new  Hanoverian  mistresses : — there  were  a  race  of  eager,  rapa- 
cious intriguers  and  suppliants,  who  choked  every  avenue  to  every 
public  office,  and  threw  an  ugly,  warping  spirit  of  party  and  self- 
interest  into  the  best-devised  and  most  li^rally-executed  measures. 
Yet  we  see  no  one,  after  reading  the  records  of  the  time,  as  written 
by  half  a  hundred  pens,  whom  ^^afflEdrs"  and  casualties  must  have 
ground  with  so  heavy  a  weight,  as  the  first  Lady  in  England ! 

With  regard  to  the  cruel  hardships  of  the  Court  Servitor,  we  are, 
generally  speaking,  less  compassionate.  £very  now  and  then  we 
come  upon  some  genuine  example  of  love  and  lovalty,«»of  implicit 
faith  urging  its  possessor  to  implicit  duty,  which  makes  the  neart 
ache  when  we  read  of  the  amount  and  manner  of  its  repayment ; 
but,  for  the  most  part,  we  believe,  that  those  who  have  made  and- 
chiunbering  the  pursuit  of  their  lives,  do  not  suffer  from  it,  that  they 
must  have  parted  from  their  independence  at  so  early  a  period  as  to 
move  glibly  through  service,  unaware  of  their  mutilation.  In  all 
their  memoirs  and  confessions  will  be  found  a  touch  of  gratulation 
and  conscious  importance  (even  when  grievances  are  in  question) 
which  calls  to  mind  the  tone  of  the  upper  servant  in  Crabbe's  inimita- 
ble *'  Delay  has  danger," 

'*  He  saw  my  Lord,  and  Lady  Jane  was  there. 
And  said  to  Johnson,  ^  Johnson  take  a  chair, — ' 
True,  we  are  servants  in  a  certain  way, 
But  in  the  hi|^er  places  so  are  they  ;  • 

We  are  obey'd  in  ours,  and  they  in  theirs  obey.' 
So,  Johnson  bow'd,  for  that  was  right  and  fit. 
And  had  no  scruple  with  the  Earl  to  sit.*' 

Nor  is  even  Lord  Hervey  exempt  from  this  (shall  we  call  it  ?)  ob- 
sequiousness, all  high  bred  as  he  is.  To  be  in  council  with  the 
Queen's  griefs  (discreditable  to  womanhood  though  some  of  them 
were),  to  bring  her  the  earliest  intelligence, — to  manage  her  by  hints 
of  his  own  originating,  repeated  as  the  rumours  and  opinions  of  '*  the 
town," — ^to  make  conversation  for  her  when  she  was  dUirait,  to 
find  mirth  for  her  when  coarser  comedy  tired, — and  all  this  while  to 
be  laid  under  the  **  soft  impeachment"  of  having  kindled  a  deep  and 


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THE  wmmamKTH  century.  563 

tender  passioii  in  the  breast  of  ofie«f  the  Queen's  daughters,  her  own 
namesaKe^ — ^never  seems  to  have  been  fcit  as  a  hardship,  or  burden, 
or  waste  of  life,  and  power,  and  intelligetMn.  All  this  seems  to  us 
a  position  at  best  rattier  pitiful  for  a  man  of  **  pafiiw*'  ^Monplish- 
ments,  and  high  station :  the  husband  of 

«(  Youth's  youngest  daughter,  sweet  Lepel,*' 
and  the  friend,  or  the  foe,  of  some  of  the  finest  spirits  of  our  Au- 
gustan age.  In  one  page,  it  is  true.  Lord  Hervey  apologflzes  for  the 
triviality  of  the  inciaents  he  chronicles ;  but  that  is,  as  it  were,  be- 
hind his  fan,  in  order  that,  the  apology  once  made,  he  may  be  at 
liberty  to  discharge  a  fresh  volley  of  "  strokes  "  against  his  most 
Gracious  Majesty's  tenderness  and  brutalitv  "  towards  his  never- 
wearied  and  much  enduring  wife," — or,  to  blacken  with  his  blackest 
distillation  of  gall  the  unfiUal  and  unfeeling  behaviour  of  the  heir- 
apparent,— or,  to  laugh  at  that  great  girl,  the  Princess  Royal,  whose 
approaching  marriage  with  a  Prince  Hunchback — Him  of  Orange — 
could  not  so  absorb  ner  but  that  she  had  **  time,  and  time  enough"  to 
concern  herself  about  Handel  **  her  music-master,"  and  the  opera, 
as  the  matters  of  consequence  closest  to  her  heart. 

So  much  for  the  •*  History  of  the  Court  of  George  the  Second,  by 
the  Queen's  old  Courtier."  The  •*  Times  of  George  the  Third  by 
Nobody*  Courtier,"  is  not  the  worst  secondary  title  which  could  be 
affixed  to  the  delightful  book  here  coupled  with  my  Lord  Hervey's. 
Let  us  not  whisper  that  there  are  now-a-days  no  more  fascinating 
Lady  Ossorys,  for  whom  a  correspondent  might  chronicle  "the 
Lind  fever ;"  or  the  humours  of  the  National  Convention  hard  by 
Fitzroy  Square,  or  other  topics  of  the  moment.  But,  on  turning  to 
this  treasury  of  bright  thinss,  we  must  feel  that  if  even  we  luive 
among  us  memoir-inditing  lords  or  *^  Cynosures "  innumerable  to 
whom  gentlemen  of  taste  could  pay  suit  and  service,  we  cannot  pre- 
tend to  a  letter- writing  Horace  1 

The  present  collection  contains  some  of  Walpole's  gayest  letters, 
thrown  off  with  the  utmost  ease,  confidence,  and  certainty  of  sympa- 
thy, and  in  his  highest  strain  of  courtesy.  **  Lady  Ossory ,"  says  Mr. 
Vernon  Smith,  in  his  preface,  '^  was  said  to  have  been  gihed  with 
high  endowments  of  mind  and  person ;  high-spirited  and  noble  in 
her  ways  of  thinking,  and  generous  in  her  disposition.    She  was  a 
beautiful  woman, — ^her  mental  faculties  superior;  she  possessed  a 
lively  imagination,  quick  discernment,  ready  wit,  great  vivacity, 
both  in  conversation  and  writing.     In  her  last  illness,  which  was 
long  and  painful,  she  evinced  the  greatest  fortitude,  strength  of 
mind,  tenderness,  resignation,  and  patience."    Add  to  this,  what  we 
have  gathered  from  former  **  Walpoliana,"— a  certain  airiness, — a 
willingness  to  play  at  dissipation  perpetually,  often  to  be  remarked 
among  those  'endowed  with  nigh  animal  spirits  (totally  distinct  from 
the  serious  pursuit  of  pleasure  as  often  to  be  observed  among  the 
phlegmatic),  and  it  will  be  easily  understood  how  precious  the  gay 
Duchess  of  Grafton  of  Horace  Walpole's  loo-days  became,  in  their 
maturer  life,  as  a  recipient  of  his  anecdotes,  speculations,  and  remi- 
niscences.   The  old,  confidential,  philandering  tone  could  be  main- 
tained between  a  pair  of  friends  so  equal  in  rank  and  in  pursuit, 
without  any  ^*  inconvenience  to  any  Lord  Castlecomer."    In  a  case 
where  there  was  no  very  serious  interest  or  tie  to  introduce  restraint 
or  passion  into  the  correspondence,  who  could  appreciate  Mrs.  Ho- 
bart's  oldest  cotillon  step  as  intimately  as  ^'our  Lady"  of  Ossory 

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564  MEMOIRS  AND  ANECDOTES  OF 

inrho  could  understand  so  thoroughly  as  herself  the  absurdity  of  Lady 
Mary  Cope's  newest  and  most  desperate  effort  to  display  herself  ad- 
vantageously in  the  eyes  of  Royalty  ? — ^who  so  perfectly  enter  into 
the  ''fairy ism"  which  was  the  true  tone  (as  its  master  once  de- 
scribed it)  of  Strawberry  Hill  ? — who  so  exquisitely  relish  Georire 
Selwyn's  ''dismal  stories"  or  smart  sayings  about  Mrs.  St.  Jack? 
Then^  though  Lady  Ossory  was  too  highly  bred  to  be  herself  blue, 
she  seemstf  to  have  loved  to  leam^  in  a  sort  of  lady-like  way,  what 
"  the  Town"  thought  of  the  great  new  play  or  the  sweet  new  poem. 
Thus,  too,  if  we  are  to  judge  by  the  letters  addressed  to  her,  she 
seems  to  have  tasted  of  politics,  like  Lady  Grace  "  soberly," — but 
with  a  discernment  of  flavours  totally  different  from  the  hearsay 
patriotism  or  parrot-like  republicanism  of  one  unable  to  choose  or 
to  judge  for  herself, — who  echoes  "the  gentlemen."  To  such  a 
lady  the  newest  French  fashion,  the  newest  Twickenham  robbery, 
the  newest  court  rumour,  were  alike  welcome.  That  she  prized  her 
correspondent's  letters  highly  is  evident  from  the  last  of  the  series, 
written  only  six  weeks  before  his  death,  in  which  he  declares  that 
she  distresses  him  "  infinitely  by  shewing  my  idle  notes,  which  I 
cannot  conceive  can  amuse  anybody."  And  we  repeat  that  the 
above  sympathies  and  congenial  tastes  give  a  charm  and  a  fulness  to 
these  letters,  which  justifies  us  in  ranking  them  below  no  former 
collection  in  the  variety  of  their  topics  or  the  sparkle  of  their  style. 
We  are  warned,  too,  that  they  are  the  last  series,  by  Walpole,  which 
is  likely  to  be  laid  before  the  public. 

We  commended  Lord  Hervey's  Memoirs  for  the  four  or  five  very 
striking  pieces  of  character  they  contain, — ^rich  and  elaborate  gal- 
lery pictures,  the  size  of  life,  which  seem  to  speak  from  their 
frames.  Here  are  some  four  or  five  score,  at  least,  of  yet  brighter 
portraitures  ;  not,  however,  of  such  august  personages  as  Kings  and 
Queens,  and  done  enamel-size.  "  Cdbinet  gems"  they  might  be 
called,  had  not  the  orators  of  the  order  of  the  Hammer  made  the 
praise  somewhat  vulgar.  In  particular,  we  do  not  remember,  in 
any  former  letters,  so  many  vivid  sketches  of  famous  women  as  the 
virtuoso  of  Strawberry  Hill  forwarded  to  his  "  sovereign,"  as  he 
loved  to  call  the  Lady  of  Ampthill.  Like  other  devout  courtiers,  he 
seems  to  have  had  no  objection  to  show  her,  besides  their  roses  and 
lilies,  the  flaws  and  specks  which  their  charms  possessed.  We  will 
take  two  of  the  portraits  at  random : — 

"  I  received  a  little  Italian  note  from  Mrs.  Cosway  this  morning, 
to  tell  me  that,  as  I  had  last  week  met  at  her  house  an  old  acquaint- 
ance without  knowing  her,  I  might  meet  her  again  this  evening  en 
connoissance  de  cause,  as  Mdlle.  La  CShevalier  Deon,  who,  as  Mrs* 
Cosway  told  me,  had  taken  it  ill  that  I  had  not  reconnoitred  her, 
and  said  she  must  be  strangely  altered, — ^the  devil  is  in  it  if  she  is 
not ! — but,  alack  J  I  have  found  her  altered  again.  Adieu  to  the 
abbatial  dignity  that  I  had  fancied  I  discovered ;  I  now  found  her 
loud,  noisy,  and  vulgar :  in  truth,  I  believe  she  had  dined  a  little 
en  dragon.  The  night  was  hot ;  she  had  no  muff  or  gloves,  and  her 
hands  and  arms  seem  not  to  have  participated  of  the  change  of 
sexes,  but  are  fitter  to  carry  a  chair  than  a  fan.  I  am  comforted, 
too,  about  her  accent.  I  asked  Monsieur  Barthelemy,  the  French 
secretary,  who  was  present,  whether  it  was  Parisian  or  good  French. 
He  assured  me,  so  far  from  it,  that  the  first  time  he  met  her,  he  had 
been  surprised  at  its  being  so  bad,  and  that  her  accent  is  strong  Bur- 


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THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.  565 

gundian.  You  ask  me,  madam,  why  she  is  here?  She  says,  poiir 
3€s  petiies  affaires,  I  take  for  granted  for  the  same  reason  that 
Francis  was  here  two  years  before  he  was  known. 

**  Nor  was  this  all  my  entertainment  this  evening.  As  Mdlle. 
Common  of  Two's  reserve  is  a  little  subsided,  there  were  other  per- 
sons present,  as  three  foreign  ministers,  besides  Barthelemy,  I^ord 
Carmarthen,  Wilkes,  and  his  daughter,  and  the  chief  of  the  Mora- 
vians. I  could  not  help  thinking  how  posterity  would  wish  to  have 
been  in  my  situation,  at  once  with  three  such  historic  personages  as 
Deon,  Wilkes,  and  Oghinski,  who  had  so  great  a  share  in  the  revo- 
lution of  Poland,  and  was  king  of  it  for  four-and- twenty  hours.  He 
is  a  noble  figure,  very  like  the  Duke  of  Northumberland  in  the  face, 
but  stouter  and  better  proportioned. 

'*  I  remember,  many  years  ago,  making  the  same  kind  of  reflec- 
tion. I  was  standing  at  my  window  after  dinner,  in  summer,  in 
Arlington  Street,  and  saw  Patty  Blount  (after  Pope's  death)  with 
nothing  remaining  of  her  immortal  charms  but  her  blue  eyes,  trudg- 
ing on  foot,  with  her  petticoats  pinned  up,  for  it  rained,  to  visit 
Blameless  Bethel,  who  was  sick  at  the  end  of  the  street." 

^*  Miss  Hannah  More,  I  see,  has  advertised  her  '  Bas  Bleu,' 
which  I  think  you  will  like.  I  don't  know  what  her  *  Florio'  is. 
Mrs.  Frail  Piozzi's  first  volume  of  *  Johnsoniana'  is  in  the  press, 
and  will  be  published  in  February." — VoL  ii.  pp.  253-4-5. 

What  an  assemblage  of  notables  to  be  packed  away  in  a  single 
letter  I  the  Londoner  may  well  cry :  with  a  complaint  against  our 
d^enerate  days  as  producing  nothing  one  half  so  edifying  or  special. 
Let  us  be  just,  however.  We  imagine  that  Lady  Cork's  rooms,  to 
the  last,  would  have  displayed  menageries  as  choice  and  curious  to 
any  painter  with  the  true  Laitcf^cer-touch.  Do  those  who  mourn 
over  the  brave  days  of  Lions  as  utterly  gone,  forget  that  our  saloons 
have  in  our  own  times  enjoyed  visits  from  such  wondrous  persons  as  a 
Countess  Vespucci  and  a  Princess  of  Babylon  (how  far  different  from 
De  Graramont's !) — that  we  have  had  Nina  Lassaves  smuggled  about 
from  one  great  mansion  in  May  Fair  to  another — Bush  Children 
served  up  au  naturel  at  aristocratic  Belgravian  luncheons — mesmeric 
ladies  telling  us  the  wonders  of  the  sun,  moon,  and  seven  stars, 
in  the  back  drawing-rooms  of  Harley-street  and  Russell-square  ?  not 
to  speak  of  such  more  honourable  and  legitimate  objects  of  curiosity 
and  enthusiasm  as  a  Lady  Sale,  a  Rajah  Brooke,  &c  And  who  need 
mourn  over  our  epoch  as  not  offering  marvels  enough  for  even  the 
vsxottblasi  *'  man  about  town," — when  we  have  lived  to  see  the  newest 
of  Napoleon  "  Pretenders  "  acting  as  special  constable  on  the  pavi  of 
London  on  the  day  of  a  republican  riot ; — when  the  Archimage  whose 
name  like  a  charm  for  so  many  a  year  held  all  Europe  in  awe.  Prince 
Mettemich  himself  is  here — without  one  single  Trollope  to  trumpet 
his  whereabouts  or  thereabouts.  As  for  the  Hannah  Mores  and  the 
Mrs.  Frail  Piozzis,  can  we  not  match — can  we  not  exceed  them 
by  the  thousand,  whether  as  regards  the  benevolence,  the  wit,  or  the 
learning  ?  But  we  must  return  for  yet  an  instant  to  the  Strawberry 
store-house.  £ven  within  the  compass  of  a  very  few  pages,  including 
those  whence  our  extract  is  drawn,  the  amount  of  stores  and  stories 
is  distracting.  We  dare  not  meddle  with  Mrs.  Barnard,  ''  the  hen 
quaker,*'  and  her  cows  so  much  coveted  by  her  gracious  and  somewhat 
covetous  majesty  Queen  Charlotte, — neither  with  young  Madame  de 
Choiseul,  "  who  longed  for  a  parrot  which  should  be  a  miracle  of 

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666  MEMOIRS  AND   ANECDOTES  OP 

eloquence/' — neither  with  ''  our  Madame  de  Maintenon,"  Mrs.  De- 
lany,  whose  establishment  at  Windsor  by  royal  command,  is  bitten 
in  with  a  very  strong  wash  o£  aqua-fortis.  But  here  is  a  sketch  of  a 
wandering  educatrix,  who,  like  many  other  enterprising  and  eccentric 
persons,  seems  to  have  proved  far  tamer  and  more  like  other  people, 
when  met  face  to  face,  than  could  have  been  expected  : 

"  I  will  read  no  more  of  Rousseau,"  (cries  WaJpole,  indulging  in 
one  of  those  bursts  of  petulance  and  prejudice,  which  are  so  doubly 
amusing  in  one  so  versatile,  so  liberal,  and  so  far  in  advance  of  his 
time,)  "  his  confessions  disgusted  me  beyond  any  book  I  ever  opened. 
His  hen,  the  schoolmistress  Madame  de  Genlis,  the  newspapers  say, 
is  arrived  in  London.  I  nauseate  her  too ;  the  eggs  of  education 
that  both  he  and  she  laid  could  not  be  hatched  till  the  chickens  would 
be  ready  to  die  of  old  age." 

£re  half  a  dozen  pages  are  turned,  we  find  something  like  a  change 
of  note.  We  must  be  allowed,  too,  to  transcribe  the  earlier  por- 
tion of  the  letter,  for  the  sake  of  its  sprightliness,  though  irrelevant 
to  the  vivacious  French  lioness. 

July  23d.  1785. 

*'  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that  the  war  of  bad  seasons,  which  has 
lasted  eight  months,  has  affected  your  ladyship,  too.  I  never  knew 
so  much  illness ;  but  as  our  natural  season,  rain,  is  returned,  I  hope 
you  will  recover  from  your  complaints.  English  consumptions  are 
attributed  to  our  insular  damps,  but  I  question  whether  justly. 
The  air  of  the  sea  is  an  elixir,  not  a  poison  ;  and  in  the  three  sultry 
summers  which  preceded  the  three  last,  it  is  notorious  that  our  fruits 
were  uncommonly  bad,  as  if  they  did  not  know  how  to  behave  in 
hot  weather.  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  contradicted  by  the  expe- 
rience of  last  night.  Mrs.  Keppel  had,  or  rather  was  to  have  had 
all  London  at  her  beautiful  villa  at  Isleworth.  Her  grace  of  Devon- 
shire was  to  have  been  there,  ay,  you  may  stare,  madam !  and  her 
grace  of  Bedford  too.  The  deluee  in  the  morning,  the  debate  in  the 
house  of  commons,  qualms  in  the  first  duchess,  and  I  don't  know 
what,  certainly  not  quahns  in  the  second,  detained  them,  and  not  a 
soul  came  from  town  but  Lady  Duncannon,  Lady  Beauchamp, 
the  two  Miss  Vemons,  the  Boltons,  the  Norths,  Lord  William  Rus- 
sell, Charles  Wyndham,  Colonel  G^diner,  and  Mr.  Aston,  and  none 
of  these  arrived  till  ten  at  night.  Violins  were  ready  but  could  not 
play  to  no  dancers ;  so  at  eleven  the  young  people  said  it  was  a 
charming  night,  and  went  to  paddle  on  the  terrace  over  the  river, 
while  we  ancients,  to  affect  being  very  hot  too,  sat  with  all  the 
windows  in  the  bow  open,  and  might  as  well  have  been  in  Green- 
land, &c 

'*  You  surprise  me,  madam,  by  saying  the  newspapers  mention 
my  disappointment  of  seeing  Madame  de  Genlis.  How  can  such 
arrant  trifles  spread  ?  It  is  very  true  that  as  the  hill  would  not  go 
to  see  Madame  de  Genlis,  she  has  come  to  the  hill.  Ten  days  ago 
Mrs.  Cosway  sent  me  a  note  that  Madame  desired  a  ticket  for  Straw- 
berry Hill.  I  thought  I  could  do  no  less  than  offer  her  a  break- 
fast, and  named  yesterday  se'nnight.  Then  came  a  message  that 
she  must  go  to  Oxford,  and  take  het  doctor's  degree ;  and  then 
another,  that  I  should  see  her  yesterday,  when  she  did  arrive,  with 
Miss  Wilkes  and  Pamela,  whom  she  did  not  even  present  to  me,  and 
whom  she  has  educated  to  be  very  like  herself  in  thejace^  I  told  her  I 
could  not  attribute  the  honour  of  her  visit  but  to  m  y  late  dear 


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THE  EIGRTBBKTH  CENTURY.  567 

friend,  Madame  du  Defknd.  It  rained  the  whole  time,  and  was  as 
dark  as  midnight,  so  that  she  could  scarce  distinguish  a  picture : 
but  you  will  want  an  account  of  her,  and  not  of  what  she  saw  or 
could  not  see.  Her  person  is  agreeable,  and  she  seems  to  have  been 
pretty.  Her  conversation  is  natural  and  reasonable,  not  precieuse 
and  affected,  and  searching  to  be  eloquent,  as  I  had  expected.  I 
asked  her  if  she  had  been  pleased  with  Oxford,  meaning  the  build-* 
ings, — ^not  the  wretched  oafs  that  inhabit  it.  She  said  she  had  had 
little  time ;  that  she  had  wished  to  learn  their  plan  of  education, 
which,  as  she  said  sensiblv,  she  supposed  was  adapted  to  our  constitu* 
tion.  I  could  have  told  her  that  it  is  directly  repugnant  to  our  con- 
stitution, that  nothing  is  taught  there  but  drunkenness  and  prero- 
gative, or,  in  their  language,  church  and  king.  I  asked  if  it  is  true 
that  the  new  edition  of  Voltaire's  works  is  prohibited.  She  replied, 
'*  Severely,'*  and  then  condemned  those  who  write  against  religion 
and  government,  which  was  a  little  unlucky  before  her  friend.  Miss 
Wilkes,  She  stayed  two  hours,  and  returns  to  France  to-day  to  her 
dutyr—Yo\.  ii.  pp.  231 .2-3. 

The  above  are  but  mere  average  specimens  of  the  matter  and 
manner  of  these  delightful  letters :  to  talk  about  which,  with  anno- 
tations, comparisons,  elucidations,  &c.,  as  we  could  like,  would  fur- 
nish us  with  pleasant  subject-matter  to  the  end  of  the  year,  making 
the  widest  miscellany  too  narrow  for  the  publication  of  our  gossip. 
And,  not  only  does  the  variety  of  topics  embraced,  ranging  from  ''pre- 
destination to  slea  silk  "  engage  us ;  and  not  only  are  the  notes  on  the 
ffreat  events  of  the  time  (from  which  we  have  reluctantly  refrained) 
full  of  suffffestion,  because  pregnant  with  interest,  shrewd  mother- 
wit,  and  widely-nurtured  experience ; — and  not  only  are  the  glimpses 
at  contemporary  literature  and  art  curious  (though  these,  being 
taken  through  Claude  Lorraine  glasses  tinged  with  a  thousand 
modish  dyes,  demand  some  knowledge  of  the  writer,  his  sympathies, 
and  his  associates,  ere  we  can  translate  them  into  the  natural  and 
trustworthy  testimony,) — but  the  character  of  the  Man,  too,  bright- 
ens, deepens,  and  widens,  as  we  read  them,  in  conjunction  with  the 
former  series  of  letters  from  the  same  prolific  source.  On  this  it  is 
a  pleasure  to  dwell — ^nay  more,  and  a  duty. 

It  was  for  some  years  a  fashion  to  treat  Walpole  as  a  trifling 
Macaroni,  to  accept  the  disclaimers  he  was  somewhat  too  fond  of  ten- 
dering when  accused  of  sound  sense,  learning,  genius,  or  philosophy, 
as  so  many  truths  beyond  dispute.  All  the  world  knows  how  nard 
it  is  for  the  mediocre,  the  dull,  and  the  ill-mannered,  to  forgive  wit 
and  hiffh-breeding ;  and  this  difficulty,  also,  had  its  part  in  the  popu- 
lar judgment  of  Horace  Walpole.  Latterlv,  however,  the  mistake 
has  been  gradually  rectified.  His  clear  heaa,  his  kind  heart,  his  gay 
spirits,  his  amazing  memory,  have  come  to  be  admitted.  His  works 
are  no  longer  treated  as  trifles  by  "  a  person  of  quality,"  but  valued 
as  substantial  and  classical  contributions  to  English  literature.  And 
it  may  be  questioned  whether  such  as  desire  to  know  how  the  world 
was  really  going  on,  when  the  Phihsophe  upset  France  and  the 
Blues  dispensed  literary  immortality  in  England,  can  find  a  work 
more  valuable  for  the  purposes  of  study,  apart  from  its  admirable 
fascination  and  entertainment,  than  the  letters,  thoughts,  and  anec- 
dotes of  Conway's  cousin,  and  Du  Defiand's  friend,  and  Lady 
Ossory's  cicishi, — the  gay,  gifted,  graceful  architect,  antiquarian, 
and  Amphitryon  of  Strawberry  Hill  I 

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568 


NOTES  OP  AN  EXCURSION  PROM  LISBON  TO  ANDA- 
LUSIA, AND  TO  THE  COAST  OP  MOROCCO. 

BT  HIS    8BRBNK    HIGHNESS  PRINCE   LOWENSTBIN.* 

The  Tagui  and  its  Banks. — Picturesque  Scenery,  and  fine  Climate. — Arriyal  at 
Cadiz. — First  Aspect  of  the  City. — Streets  and  Promenades. — Beauty  of  the 
Andalusian  Women.  —  Male  and  Female  Coscume.  —  The  Cathedral.  —  The 
Capuchin  Convent. — The  Orphan  Hospital,  and  Lunatic  Asylum. — Traits  of 
Spanish  Character. — A  Tertulia. — Spanish  Ladies. — Window  Nendezvotu, 

I  HAD  been  sojourning  for  some  time  in  Lisbon  when  my  friends 
M.  de  S  and  Herr  E-    ■     prevailed  on  me  to  accompany  them 

on  an  excursion  to  the  south  of  Spain  and  Morocco.  The  time  fixed 
for  departure  was  the  12th  of  March,  1845,  and  on  that  day  we  went 
on  board  one  of  the  Peninsular  company's  steamers,  then  lying  in 
the  harbour. 

About  eleven  in  the  forenoon  we  weighed  anchor,  and  favoured 
bv  a  fresh  breeze  from  the  east,  we  dropped  rapidly  down  the  river. 
The  custom-house,  the  Sodre  quay,  the  palace  of  the  empress  (Don 
Pedro's  widow),  and  the  Necessidades  were  soon  left  in  the  distance, 
and  a  series  of  splendid  prospects  rose  successively  before  us  as  we 
glided  along  the  picturesque  banks  of  the  Tagus.  This  enchanting 
scenery  has  repeatedlv  been  the  theme  of  glowing  description,  both 
in  prose  and  verse ;  but  the  magical  effect  of  the  glorious  cHmate 
defies  description.     It  must  be  felt  to  be  understood. 

The  tower  of  Belem  stands  on  a  projecting  tongue  of  land,  and, 
viewed  from  a  distance,  it  looks  as  ir  built  in  the  midst  of  the  water. 
A  battery  with  the  Braganza  frigate  stationed  in  front  of  it,  com- 
mands the  river  both  up  and  down.  The  situation  of  the  tower  is 
highly  picturesoue.  As  we  passed  by  it,  we  saw  on  the  battlements 
the  Duchess  de  Terceira  with  her  lovely  nieces,  and  they  waved  their 
handkerchiefs  as  the  signal  of  fisrewell.  The*  duchess  is  the  wife  of 
the  distinguished  general  who  rendered  such  important  service  to 
the  cause  of  Don  Pedro,  and  she  is  one  of  the  few  Portuguese  ladies 
who  can  justly  be  called  beautiful.  Generally  speaking  the  women 
of  Portugal  are  distinguished  for  intelligence,  and  for  refined  tact  of 
manner;  but  they  have  few  claims  to  personal  beauty.  In  this 
respect  they  challenge  an  unfavourable  comparison  with  their  fair 
neighbours  of  Spain. 

A  feeling  of  melancholy  is  created  on  beholding  the  now  deserted 
state  of  the  Tagus ;  that  noble  river,  over  whose  bosom  so  many 
ships  might  float,  and  along  whose  banks  the  city  of  Lisbon  extencis 
to  the  distance  of  several  miles.  But  the  appearance  of  the  river  is 
in  perfect  accordance  with  the  desolate  aspect  of  its  shores  on  either 
side,  and  indeed  with  the  whole  face  of  the  country.  Ruined 
churches  and  convents  speak  of  the  fallen  clergy ;  whilst  deserted 
castles  and  dilapidated  country-houses  denote  the  poverty  of  nobles 
and  landowners.  Even  yet  there  remain  visible  traces  of  the  great 
earthquake  of  1755 ;  and  the  ravages  of  the  last  civil  war  are  still 

*  First  Secretary  of  Legation  to  the  Prussian  Embassy  now  in  London. 

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EXCURSION   FROM   LISBON  TO   ANDALUSIA.  569 

contpicuous.  That  war  visited  Portugal  with  disasters,  fVom  which 
she  will  not  speedily  recover.  In  the  middle  of  the  bar  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Tagus,  stands  the  light-house  of  Bugea ;  the  waves  of  the 
Atlantic  wash  its  base,  and  the  entrance  of  the  river  is  guarded  by 
several  forts. 

On  rising  from  our  berths  on  the  morning  of  the  I4th  we  found 
we  were  rapidly  approaching  Cadis  Harbour.  Masses  of  building 
became  gradually  oiscemible  through  the  morning  mist  which  over- 
spread tpe  sea,  and  as  we  advanced  we  beheld  the  white  city  rising 
above  the  waves,  like  a  colossal  swan,  floating  in  majestic  repose 
over  its  own  watery  domain.  The  slip  of  land  on  which  Cadiz  is 
built  is  so  narrow,  and  it  stretches  so  far  into  the  sea,  that  when  the 
horison  is  overhung  with  clouds,  the  mainland  is  not  discernible, 
and  Cadiz  seems  to  be  an  insular  citv  like  Venice.  The  rising  sun, 
dispelling  the  light  mist,  soon  unveiled  the  verdant  shores  of  the 
bay,  and  enabled  us  to  obtain  a  clear  view  of  the  town.  The  roofs 
of  the  houses  are  flat;  some  being  castellated,  and  others  having 
towers  which  serve  as  belvideres.  One  side  of  Uie  town  is  protected 
by  a  range  of  chalky  rocks  which  rise  along  the  shore.  Against 
these  rocks  the  waves  break  vrith  considerable  fury,  often  scattering 
their  foam  over  the  wall  which  bounds  the  Almeda.  This  place  is  the 
summer  promenade  of  the  inhabitants  of  Cadiz,  and  here  the 
coquetish  Gadiiana  enjoys  the  cool  sea  breeze,  half  concealing  her 
face  by  the  folds  of  her  mantilla  and  her  ever-moving  fan.  Along 
the  wall  of  the  Almeda  are  planted  some  old  rusty  pieces  of  cannon, 
venerable  witnesses  of  past  glory,  but  now  somewhat  vauntingly 
turning  their  mouths  towards  the  sea. 

On  one  side  of  the  Almeda,  and  at  some  distance  from  the  pro- 
menade, are  several  ranges  of  buildings,  consisting  of  store-houses, 
the  custom-house,  and  barracks.  Here  and  there  are  scattered 
groups  of  neat-lookinff  private  houses,  having  balconies  filled  with 
garden  pots,  and  windows  shaded  by  green  Venetian  blinds.  In  the 
middle  of  the  quay,  which  runs  along  the  side  of  the  harbour,  there 
is  a  vast  circular  building,  the  use  of  which  is  immediately  under- 
stood by  the  traveller  when  he  recollects  that  he  is  in  Spain.  It  is 
the  circus  for  bull-fighting,  and,  like  the  theatre,  the  building  is 
public  property.  Every  considerable  Spanish  town  contains  a  simi- 
lar edifice.  Cadiz  is  celebrated  for  its  bull-fights ;  for  owing  to  the 
peculiar  construction  of  the  circus,  the  toreros  are  exposed  to  great 
danger,  for,  when  pursued  by  the  infuriated  animals,  they  cannot 
save  themselves  in  the  usual  way  by  leaping  over  a  barrier ;  they 
can  only  escape  by  getting  into  little  recesses  made  in  the  inner  wall 
of  the  circus. 

We  observed  but  Httle  bustle  in  Cadiz  harbour,  for  the  trade  of 
the  place  has  long  been  in  a  declining  state.  It  has  been  transferred 
partly  to  Gibraltar,  which  is  the  central  point  of  smuggling,  and 
partly  to  Puerto  Santa  Maria,  whence  all  the  Sherry  wine  is  now 
shipped.  Nor  is  the  trade  of  this  once  flourishing  commercial  city 
likely  to  revive  as  long  as  the  existing  system  of  custom-house 
duties  continues  in  force.  The  question  of  making  Cadiz  a  free 
port  was  at  one  time  brought  under  the  consideration  of  the  Cortes  ; 
but  it  fell  to  the  ground  through  the  exposition  it  encountered  from 
the  deputies  of  the  manufiscturing  districts  of  Arragon  and  Catalonia. 
We  were  assured  on  very  good  authority,  that  the  city  of  Cadiz 

yoh.  XXIII.  u  u 


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570  EXCURSION   FROM  LISBON 

mighty  for  the  sum  of  30,000  dollars,  purchase  the  silence  of  this 
opposition.  I  will  not  venture  to  doubt  the  possibility  of  this  fact 
in  a  country  where  so  many  objects  are  effected  by  corrupt  means. 

We  had  no  sooner  set  foot  on  the  quay  than  we  were  surrounded 
by  a  troop  of  noisy  porters,  who  one  and  all  seized  our  lugeage  in 
their  eager  emulation  to  serve  us.  Neither  these  men  nor  the  cus- 
tom-house officers  behave  in  a  way  calculated  to  produce  a  very 
favourable  impression  on  foreign  visitors.  Slipping  a  piece  of  money 
into  the  hand  of  one  of  the  officers,  T  said,  "  Sefior,"  (for  in  Spain 
every  man  is  addressed  by  the  title  of  Sefior,)  '*  take  that  for  your 
trouole."  M.  S—  ■  ■,  who  neglected  this  precaution,  had  several 
articles  taken  from  his  portmanteau  and  forfeited. 

A  crowd  of  strange  thoughts  and  feelings  rushed  to  my  mind 
when,  for  the  first  time,  I  found  myself  on  Spanish  ground.  From 
earliest  youth  one  is  accustomed  to  regard  Spain,  and  especially 
the  south  of  Spain,  as  the  native  land  of  romance  and  adventure. 
Memory  involuntary  conjures  up  visions  of  the  grandeur  and  glory 
of  the  ancient  dominion  of  the  Moors ;  and  the  chivalrous  conflicts 
they  maintained  against  the  Christians,  until  the  period  of  their  final 
subjugation  and  expulsion. 

On  first  entering  Cadiz,  the  visitor  is  struck  with  the  general  air 
of  order,  neatness,  and  cleanliness  which  pervades  the  whole  city. 
The  streets  are  paved  with  free-stone,  and  notwithstanding  their 
narrowness  and  the  lofliness  of  the  houses,  they  are  more  pleasant 
than  the  streets  of  many  northern  cities.  There  is,  it  is  true,  but 
little  traffic  of  carriages  and  horses,  a  circumstance  which  very 
greatly  facilitates  the  task  of  keeping  the  streets  clean.  The 
Spaniards  attach  much  importance  to  the  outward  appearance  of 
their  houses,  and  they  have  them  whitewashed  regularly  every  year. 
The  windows  extend  down  to  the  flooring  of  the  rooms,  and  are 
fronted  by  balconies  filled  with  flower-pots;  the  balconies  being 
shaded  from  the  sun  by  broad  awnings.  As  we  proceeded  from  the 
quay  to  our  hotel,  we  were  struck  by  the  gay  and  animated  appear- 
ance of  the  streets ;  everything  seemed  to  wear  a  sort  of  holiday 
aspect,  which  was  exceedingly  pleasing. 

The  hotel  at  which  we  took  up  our  abode  was  a  building  in  the 
genuine  Spanish  style.  We  entered  from  the  street  into  a  long 
passage,  which  led  to  a  small  court-yard,  paved  with  white  and  grey 
marble,  and  refreshed  by  a  fountain.  The  interior  of  the  house, 
however,  presented  no  traces  of  the  eastern  luxury  which  the  marble 
court  and  fountain  seemed  to  promise.  The  apartments  were  plainly 
fitted  up,  and  contained  merely  indispensable  articles  of  furniture ; 
but  all  was  particularly  clean ;  indeed  the  only  luxury  of  the  house 
was  its  perfect  cleanhness.  This  hotel,  called  the  Hdiel  FrangaU, 
was  the  best  I  met  with  in  Spain ;  and  I  may  add  that  the  charges 
were  exceedingly  moderate,  being  about  one  dollar  per  day  for  each 
person.  Within  the  court  yard,  a  gallery  extended  along  the  first 
story  of  the  building;  and  in  this  gallery  were  the  doors  which  opened 
into  the  apartments.  Some  of  the  rooms  received  light  from  win- 
dows opening  into  the  court-yard ;  but  our  windows  looked  into  the 
street,  and  it  afforded  us  no  small  amusement  to  look  out  and  observe 
the  passers  by.  The  fair  Gadilanas,  their  heads  enveloped  in  their 
mantillas,  tripped  gracefully  along  the  pavement,  light  of  foot,  and 
to  all   outward  appearance,  no  less  light  of  heart.     Most  of  the 


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TO    ANDALUSIA.  571 

women  we  observed  were  of  small  stature  and  well  formed.  Their 
dresses  were  sufficiently  short  to  shew  the  elegant  feet  and  ankles 
of  which  the  Spanish  females  are  so  justly  proud. 

Having  rested  and  refreshed  ourselves,  we  went  forth  to  the 
Paseo.  The  winter  promenade  is  the  sunny  Plaza  della  Constitu- 
tion, situated  in  the  central  part  of  the  town,  and  well  sheltered 
from  the  wind.  Along  the  siaes  of  the  Plaza  there  are  plantations 
of  trees,  and  the  middto  part,  which  is  the  promenade,  is  paved  with 
large  flagstones.  On  this  pavement  the  inhabitants  of  Cadiz  throng 
lo^pther  in  such  numbers,  that  each  person  involuntarily  jostles  his 
neighbour,  whilst  all  other  parts  of  the  Plaza  are  empty  and  deserted. 
In  summer  the  promenaders  assemble  on  the  Alme^,  which  is  above 
the  city  wall,  on  the  sea-shore. 

On  the  Plaza  della  Constitucion  we  found  assembled  a  consider- 
able portion  of  the  heau  monae  of  Cadiz.  The  promenaders  were 
pacing  to  and  fro  in  groups.  Many  of  the  ladies  were  remarkably 
Deautiful ;  but  their  beauty  consisted  not  so  much  in  regularity  of 
features,  as  in  an  animated  and  piauant  expression  of  countenance, 
the  charm  of  which  was  heightenect  by  large  dark  eyes,  black  hair, 
and  a  graceful  deportment.  All  were  habited  in  black;  those  of  the 
richer  class  being  distinguished  only  bv  the  superior  quality  of  their 
silk  dresses  and  mantillas.  The  mantilla  is  worn  by  all  females  save 
those  of  the  very  poorest  grade.  It  consists  of  a  sort  of  scarf  of  silk, 
fastened  at  the  back  part  of  the  head,  and  falling  over  the  shoulders. 
Attached  to  this  scarf  is  a  veil,  or  deep  border  of  lace,  which  may  be 
tamed  back,  or  drawn  over  the  face  at  pleasure. 

The  men  have  long  ago  laid  aside  their  national  costume,  and 
adopted  the  dress  worn  in  other  parts  of  Europe.  The  Spanish 
national  dress  is,  however,  partially  retained  by  men  of  the  poorer 
class ;  the  short  hose,  the  embroidered  jacket,  and  the  profusion  of 
ornament  which  once  characterized  the  picturesque  costume  being 
now  discarded.  The  dress,  as  worn  at  the  present  time,  consists  of 
a  broad-brimmed  felt  hat,  called  a  sombrero,  ornamented  with  two 
feathers  on  the  left  side,  a  coloured  handkerchief  being  usually 
bound  round  the  head,  and  partially  seen  under  the  hat.  The  jacket 
is  of  coarse  brown  clodi,  having  on  the  collar  and  sleeves,  ornaments 
made  of  party-coloured  cloth.  The  young  beaux  o£  the  plebeian 
class,  who  are  called  majos,  wear  an  under-jacket  or  vest  of  silk  or 
fine  doth,  adorned  with  silver  buttons.  The  other  portions  of  the 
dress  consist  of  small  clothes,  trimmed  with  light-blue  braiding,  and 
gaiters  of  black  or  yellow  leather,  extending  no  higher  than  the  calf 
of  the  leg,  so  as  to  shew  the  white  stockings ;  a  red  or  yellow  neck- 
scarf,  and  a  Spanish  mantle  complete  the  costume. 

We  called  on  our  respective  consuls,  and  on  the  following  day  the 
son  of  Herr  Uthhoff,  the  Prussian  consul,  accompanied  us  in  a  stroll 
through  the  city,  for  the  purpose  of  shewing  us  some  of  its  curiosi- 
ties and  wonders.  We  visited  the  cathedral  and  several  of  the 
churches.  The  cathedral  is  a  colossal  building;  but  its  internal 
magnitude  is  less  remarkable  than  the  massive  structure  of  its  exter- 
nal masonry.  The  roof  is  crowned  by  a  cupola,  but  in  other  respects 
the  building  is  in  the  renaissance  style.  It  is  characterized  at  once 
by  poverty  of  taste,  and  by  a  total  ignorance  of  the  laws  of  architec* 
ture.  The  date  of  its  structure  is  traced  to  that  period  when  archi- 
tecture declined  in  Spain,  in  consequence  of  the  suppression  of  the 

u  o  2 


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o72  EXCURSION  FROM  LISBON 

fVee-tnasons,  who  kept  within  their  own  body  the  knowledge  of  that 
science.  Michael  Angelo  has  been  justly  reproached  for  an  undue 
predilection  in  favour  of  the  gigantic  and  the  fantastic  styles ;  with 
still  greater  justice  this  reproach  may  be  applied  to  the  architect  of 
the  cathedral  of  Cadiz. 

On  first  entering,  the  eye  of  the  spectator  is  attracted  by  two  pic- 
tures attributed  to  Murillo.  They  are  decidedly  in  the  style  of  that 
master ;  but,  a  want  of  transparency  in  the  colouring,  and  a  certain 
stiffness  in  the  grouping,  render  their  authenticity  doubtful.  Cadiz 
is  not  rich  in  treasures  of  art.  The  Capuchin  convent  contains 
three  genuine  pictures  by  Murillo.  One  of  these,  the ''  Marriage  of 
St.  Catharine,"  is  unfinished.  Whilst  engaged  in  painting  it,  Murillo 
fell  from  the  scaffold  on  which  he  was  standing ;  and,  in  consequence 
of  the  injuries  he  received,  he  died  at  Seville  six  months  afterwards. 
A  peculiar  interest  is  attached  to  this  picture  from  the  circumstance 
of  Its  being  the  last  work  of  the  great  master ;  but,  in  comparison 
with  his  best  efforts,  it  betrays  obvious  traces  of  declining  talent. 

We  visited  the  Orphan  Hospital  and  the  Lunatic  Asylum,  which 
are  in  different  compartments  of  the  same  building.  The  little  in- 
mates of  the  hospital  appear  to  be  under  admirable  management ; 
they  are  welUfed,  well-clothed,  and  lodged  in  an  airy  and  spacious 
building.  The  unfortunate  lunatics,  on  the  other  hand,  are  shame- 
fully neglected.  Those  whose  madness  was  of  a  violent  kind  were 
confined  in  chains,  and  were  only  half-clothed;  some  were  pro- 
vided with  hard  beds,  and  others  had  no  resting-place  but  the  floor 
of  their  narrow  cells,  which  resembled  dens  for  wild-beasts  more 
than  habitations  for  human  beings.  These  cells  all  opened  into  a 
sort  of  courtyard,  in  which  the  harmless  class  of  lunatics  were  al- 
lowed to  move  about  and  amuse  themselves.  Our  attention  was 
particularly  attracted  by  a  man,  who  was  declaiming  in  rythmical 
metre.  He  could  not  be  said  to  be  reciting  poetry,  for  what  he  ut- 
tered was  sheer  nonsense ;  but  the  lines  were  marked  by  rhyme  and 
rhythm.  He  was  exceedingly  pale  and  attenuated,  and  he  had  an 
intellectual  head,  if  one  may  say  so  of  a  lunatic.  We  were  informed 
that  this  man  had  devoted  himself  very  closely  to  study,  and  had 
been  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  poetry.  His  unremitting  mental  appli- 
cation, by  impairing  his  health,  unfitted  him  for  those  exertions  on 
which  his  subsistence  depended.  He  was  consequently  reduced  to 
poverty,  which,  together  with  an  unfortunate  love- affair,  deprived 
Dim  of  reason.  B<H>ks,  his  old  companions,  were  now  his  only  source 
of  diversion.  We  were  told  that  he  was  often  earnestly  engaged  in 
reading,  and  that  he  apj^ared  to  understand  what  he  read. 

Another  portion  of  this  building  is  set  apart  as  an  asylum  for  aged 
married  couples.  Each  couple  has  a  separate  set  of  apartments,  and 
has  one  of  the  orphan  children  of  the  hospital  for  an  attendant  In 
the  spacious  courtyard,  common  to  all  the  inmates  of  the  asylum, 
we  saw  several  of  the  old  men  and  women,  accompanied  by  their 
youthful  attendants.  It  was  an  exceedingly  interesting  sight,  and 
we  were  assured  that  the  old  people  usually  exercised  a  powerful 
and  salutary  influence  over  the  minds  of  their  adopted  children. 

In  the  evening  I  had  an  engagement  to  one  of  those  little  parties 

•which  the  Spaniards  call  tertuUas,    This  afforded  me  an  opportunity 

of  observing  the  truly  social  spirit  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  south  of 

Spain ;  for  the  ieriulias  whicn  I  subsequently  attended  in  Seville 


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TO   ANDALUSIA.  573 

and  Granada  all  presented  the  same  character.  The  Spaniards  do 
not  enter  into  company  with  solemn  faces  and  reserved  manners. 
When  they  meet  together  in  a  iertulia,  it  is  to  enjoy  a  few  hours 
of  sprightly  conversation,  freely  interspersed  with  jesting  and 
merriment.  The  Spanish  ladies,  too,  are  exceedingly  lively  and 
unreserved  in  the  company  of  gentlemen,  and  they  possess  a  charm- 
ing readiness  in  witty  raillery,  with  which  a  stranger  cannot  help 
being  pleased.  In  the  tertuUtu  a  guitar  is  generally  introduced,  and 
without  pretensions  either  to  musical  talent  or  a  fine  voice,  any  one 
of  the  party  will  readily  sing  for  the  entertainment  of  the  rest  The 
little  Spanish  songs  performed  on  these  occasions  owe  their  charm 
to  the  words  rather  than  to  any  particular  beauty  of  melody.  At 
tertuUcu  there  are  usually  no  refreshments ;  but  sometimes  glasses 
of  sugared  water  and  lemonade  are  handed  about 

As  soon  as  a  stranger  has  made  his  obedience  to  the  lady  of  the 
house,  he  takes  a  seat  wherever  he  chooses,  and  during  the  whole 
evening  he  may  be  engaged  in  close  conversation  with  one  particu- 
lar lady,  without  the  circumstance  attracting  any  notice.  Both 
ladies  and  gentlemen  call  each  other  by  their  Christian  names ;  and 
even  on  introductions  between  strangers  family  names  are  not 
always  mentioned.  This  little  trait  is  m  itself  characteristic  of  the 
tone  of  unceremonious  freedom  prevailing  in  Spanish  society  gene- 
rally ;  a  freedom  which,  it  appears  to  me,  is  carried  to  somewhat 
too  great  a  length,  inasmuch  as  it  tends  to  mar  refinement  Young 
ladies,  for  example,  often  talk  on  subjects  of  which  they  should 
be  supposed  to  be  ignorant,  and  married  ladies  indulge  in  still 
greater  freedom  of  discourse.  This  has  given  rise  to  a  style  of  con- 
versation in  which  many  persons  have  arrived  at  an  extraordinary 
degree  of  proficiency ;  I  allude  to  an  ingenious  use  of  ambiguous 
double  meaning,  which  there  would  be  no  need  to  resort  to  if  things 
could  be  called  by  their  right  names.  Spanish  ladies  are  seldom 
highly  educated;  most  of  uiem,  indeed,  are  exceedingly  ignorant 
on  all  subjects,  save  those  in  which  they  are  immediately  interested. 
Their  intelligence,  like  that  of  children,  is  limited  to  things  and  cir- 
cumstances with  which  they  are  in  immediate  contact ;  and  their 
literary  knowledge  is  confined  to  the  history  and  the  poetrv  of  their 
country.  In  their  own  narrow  sphere  they  are  truly  charming; 
but  transport  them  to  the  fashionable  saUms  of  London  and  Paris, 
and  they  would  feel  themselves  out  of  place:  in  such  society, 
indeed,  they  would  probably  never  attain  a  footing.  The  Spanish 
women  depreciate  everything  foreign,  and  never  seek  to  identify 
themselves  with  things  belonging  to  other  countries.  So  far  do 
they  carry  this  feeling  of  exclusiveness,  that  they  seldom  seem  to 
acquire  an  easy  familiarity  either  with  foreign  languages  or  foreign 
fashions.  Their  fair  neighbours  of  Portugal,  on  the  other  hand, 
though  far  inferior  in  personal  charms,  and  retaining  but  little  of 
pure  Portuguese  individuality,  have  unquestionably  the  advantage 
of  them  in  all  that  relates  to  mental  attainments  and  cultivation. 

In  the  genera]  intercourse  of  society,  the  Spaniards  do  not  insist 
very  strictly  on  the  forms  of  etiquette.  A  stranger,  after  having 
been  introduced  to  a  family,  may,  if  he  chooses,  call  every  day,  or 
he  may  make  his  calls  at  very  long  intervals.  But  however  seldom 
his  visits,  he  is  sure  to  be  always  made  welcome.  The  Spaniards 
have  a  favourite  phrase,  which  is  constantly  on  their  lips :  they  say. 


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574  EXCURSION    FROM   LISBON    TO   ANDALUSIA. 

"  This  thing  or  the  other  is  quite  at  your  disposal ;"  and  they  in- 
cessantly repeat  the  assurance  to  their  visitors.  But  when  the 
Spaniard  uses  this  phrase  in  reference  to  his  house,  and  siays, 
'^  Mia  cata  esia  a  la  dispogickm  de  usled,"  it  ceases  to  be  the  mere  ex- 
pression of  courtesy,  but  is  uttered  in  perfect  sincerity.  The  polite- 
ness of  the  Spaniards  is  less  than  that  of  other  nations  a  matter  of 
outward  form.  There  is  an  unfeigned  earnestness  in  their  ex- 
pressions of  kindness,  and  most  especially  in  their  assurances  of  hos- 
pitality. Of  this  I  have  had  frequent  opportunities  of  being  con- 
vinced. In  fact,  the  Spanish  character  is  essentially  imbued  with  a 
spirit  of  chivalry,  which  manifests  itself  even  in  the  ordinary  affairs 
of  social  life.  In  no  country  are  women  treated  with  such  delicate 
courtesy, — such  true  gallantry,  as  in  Spain. 

On  leaving  the  tertuUa  I  have  just  mentioned,  I  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  observing  a  trait  characteristic  of  the  free  manners  of  the 
ladies  of  Cadiz.  It  was  rather  late  in  the  evening,  and  as  we  were 
passing  a  large  and  elegant  house,  the  residence  of  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal families  in  Cadiz,  we  observed  a  gentleman  muffled  up  in  a 
cloak,  with  a  guitar  in  his  hand.  He  was  not  playing  the  instrument, 
but  he  was  engaged  in  conversation  with  a  lady  at  one  of  the  win- 
dows of  the  first  floor ;  and  the  lady,  the  better  to  hear  what  was  said 
to  her,  was  bending  over  the  railing  of  the  balcony.  At  our  approach 
the  conversation  ceased,  and  the  gentleman  touched  a  few  chords 
on  his  guitar.  I  learned  from  the  friend  who  accompanied  me  (a 
Spaniard),  that  the  lady  engaged  in  this  tite-d-tite  was  the  daughter 
of  the  owner  of  the  house ;  and  that  she  was  a  young  lady  of  great 

beauty,  to  whom  Senor  P ,  the  gentleman  with  the  guitar,  was 

offering  the  homage  of  his  admiration. 

''  Then  I  presume  they  are  betrothed  lovers  ?"  said  I. 

'*  I  do  not  know,"  replied  my  companion. 

"  But  are  not  these  nocturnal  colloquies  detrimental  to  the  young 
lady's  reputation  ?" 

''  Oh  I  by  no  means,"  answered  my  informant.  "  This  young 
lady  is  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  in  Cadiz ;  her  parents  know  of 

and  permit  the  nightly  rendezvous  of  Senor  P .     And  after^  all, 

where  is  the  harm  in  any  one  conversing  from  a  first  floor  window 

with  a  person  in  the  street  ?     The  Senorita  de  M ,  whom  we 

met  at  the  iertuUa  this  evening,  has  a  conversation  with  her  lover 
every  night  regularly,  at  one  of  the  ground-floor  windows  of  her 
father's  house.  We  are  going  to  pass  that  way  ;  possibly  we  may 
see  her." 

We  did  so.  As  we  were  proceeding  through  one  of  the  adjoin- 
ing streets,  we  saw  a  figure,  enveloped  in  a  cloak,  standing  before  a 
grated  window.  As  we  advanced,  a  white  hand,  which  was  ex- 
tended from  the  grating,  was  suddenly  withdrawn. 

*'  That  is  the  abode  of  the  Senorita  de  M ,"  observed  my  com- 
panion. "  She  has  had  several  novios*  and  she  is  a  very  pretty  and 
fascinating  girl." 

These  window  rendezvous  are  affairs  of  common  occurrence  in 
other  towns  in  the  south  of  Spain,  and  they  never  call  forth  the 
slightest  censure. 

*  Novio^  signifies  literiUly  a  betrothed  husband.  But,  in  Andalusia  the  word 
trould  appear  to  have  a  more  extended  meaning. 


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575 


RATTERY  BROWN; 

OB, 

THE   PRIVATEER'S   CAROUSAL. 

BY    ROBBBT    P08TANB. 

**  Is  this  a  dinner  ?  this  a  genial  room  ?  ** 
*'  No  !  it  *8  a  sacrifice,  and  a  hecatomb  !  '* 

Tab  rising  generation,  just  now  beginning  to  reap  its  first  crop  of 
mustaches,  can  have  only  a  melo-dramatic,  T.  P.  Cooke  sort  of  notion 
of  the  class  of  men  which  manned  our  privateers  during  the  last  erapple 
with  France,  and  it  may  seem  treason  to  suppose  that  they  could  have 
been  more  reckless  than  their  brother  tars  of  the  Royal  Navy«  who  so 
eallantly  muzzled  the  Frenchman's  ports,  and  kept  the  yelping  of  the 
dogs  of  war  fi-om  disturbing  our  slumbers  at  home. 

Yet  it  must  be  admitted,  that  it  required  a  peculiar  courage  to  adopt 
a  service  in  which,  sometimes,  no  quarter  was  given,  and,  moreover,  it 
must  be  borne  in  mind,  while  estimating  the  hazards  the  privateers- 
man  had  to  encounter,  that  he  was  often  as  much  an  object  of  dislike 
to  the  British  cruiser,  as  the  foe  whose  trade  he  so  completely  de- 
stroyed. For  ''  the  race  is  not  always  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to 
the  ttrmtg,"  and  the  king's  best  frigates  were  often  outwitted,  as  well 
as  outsailed,  by  some  of  those  '^  brass  bottom  sa  sarpints,"  which  fre- 
quently snapped  up  "  a  good  tall  ship,"  that  otherwise  might  have 
added  to  the  prize-money  of  the  roval  cruiser. 

Notwithstanding  these  drawbacks,  the  fitting  out  of  private  ships 
for  the  purpose  of  destroying  the  enemy's  trade,  was  very  popular,  the 
ri^ht  or  wrong  of  the  question  was  but  little  heeded  on  shore,  such 
trifling  distinctions  were  disregarded  during  the  feverish  excitement 
of  the  war,  or  were  drowned  in  the  death-struggle  for  foreign  mastery. 
Besides,  it  required  no  great  efiTort  to  equip  a  vessel  for  this  field  of 
predatory  warfare.  Almost  every  port  had  its  lively  brig  or  dipper- 
schooner,  and  the  rough  and  readv  populace  of  our  maritime  towns  en- 
joyed the  fun,-— it  was  of  the  right  sort,  short  cruises  and  plenty  of 
prize-money,— the  privateer's  cargo,  provisions,  powder,  and  shot,  was 
soon  shipped,  and  then,  hurrah  for  a  leading  wind  and  a  luck^  cruis- 
ing ground,  and,  with  these  blessings,  it  was  little  short  of  a  miracle  if 
Jack  didn't  cut  pretty  considerable  large  thongs  out  of  the  enemy's 
hide.  Three  weeks,  nay,  often  three  days,  prowling  "  'twixt  Ushant 
light  and  Cape  La  Hogue,"  easily  supplied  the  funds  for  a  month's 
debauch  ashore,  and  when  the  money  was  gone,  why,  as  the  old  song 
has  it,  "  he  went  to  sea  again." 

Among  the  many  insignificant  towns  that  sent  these  harassing  ves- 
sels to  sea,  there  is  one  down  on  the  southern  part  of  the  coast  of 
Devon,  situated  on  a  small  and  limpid  stream,  which,  after  dallying 
for  many  miles  through  a  romantic  r^ion,  discharges  itself  into  the 
English  Channel.  The  cluster  of  tempest-torn  dwellings  that  dis- 
figured the  picturesque  mouth  of  this  pleasant  river,  was,  during  the 
war,  the  abiding  place  of  a  mixed  population  of  pilots,  fishermen, 
smugglers,  and  privateers.  They  were  known  as  a  bold  and  hardv 
race>  and  restless  as  the  waters  whereon  they  gained  their  daily  bread. 


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576  BATTERY   BROWN. 

As  might  be  imagined,  the  orderly  portion  of  this  turbalent  little 
town  was  that  occupied  by  the  pilots,  but>  in  fflaring  opposition  to  this 
useful  class,  might  have  been  seen  the  recluess  privateers,  ready  to 
join  any  sea  rover  in  quest  of  prey,  while  the  aged  remained  at  home, 
and  employed  themselves  with  deep-sea  fishing ;  all,  however,  when 
occasion  suited,  had  no  scruples  in  going  hotch-potch  in  a  smuggling 
lay,  and  turning  the  wants  of  friend  as  well  as  foe  to  their  mutual 
profit. 

Thirty  years  of  peace,  if  we  may  credit  some  of  the  old  folks, — ^who 
still  fondly  cherish  the  remembrance  of  those  glorious  dap, — ^have 
sadly  altered  this  blissful  state  of  things.  For  instance,  a  well  organ- 
ised coast-guard  soon  diverted  the  smuggler's  gains  into  the  national 
exchequer,  and,  of  course,  when  the  war  ended,  so  did  the  rovings  of 
the  privateer.  The  peace  brought  security,  and  the  old  weather-worn 
dwellings  gave  place  to  handsome  marine  villas,  showy-looking  hotels, 
and  lodging-houses,  wherein  the  present  race  of  would-be  young  smug- 
glers and  privateersmen  levy  black  mail  upon  all  who  happen  to  be 
bewitched  by  the  charms  of  nature  into  loitering  for  a  few  days  amongst 
them. 

Let  us  suppose  that  I  had  read  all  the  novels  in  the  marine  library, 
seen  all  the  coniurors,  and  found  out  all  their  tricks,  smoked  all  the 
good  cigars  in  the  town,  and  cultivated  an  acquaintance  with  every 
boatman  on  the  beach,  and  at  last  found  one,  who,  having  nothing 
else  to  do,— no  diflicult  task,  bv  the  by, — was  willing  to  spin  a  yam 
about  the  good  old  times  above  alluded  to. 

The  object  which  introduced  his  dearly  cherished  luxury  of  pri- 
vateering to  our  particular  notice,  was  the  skeleton  of  a  v^toel  that 
had  been  at  some  distant  day  hauled  high  and  dry  upon  the  shingle 
beach.  The  old  craft  had  apparently  l^n  used  as  a  dwelling  upon 
the  land,  after  her  voyages  on  the  sea  had  ended,  fbr  the  remains  of  a 
roof  still  partially  covered  her  rotten  decks.  Her  ports  had  also  been 
fitted  with  sash  windows,  but  the  glass  had  all  disappeared,  and  there 
was  an  air  of  desolation  about  her  that  denoted  she  had  been  deserted 
to  the  fury  of  the  winds  for  a  long  period. 

<' Ah  r  said  my  companion,  giving  at  the  same  time  a  severe  turn 
to  his  quid,  ''  there 's  a  queer  yarn  spun  about  that  old  brig/' 

*'  Indeed,"  said  I,  enquiringly. 

'*  I  b'lieve  ye.  Old  Kattery  Brown,  what  liv'd  an'  died  aboard  her, 
wos  the  rum*ist  lookin'  chap  you  ever  sot  eye  on ;  he  wos  as  thin  as  a 
shotten  herrin',  and  his  toggs  hung  about  him  like  a  purser's  shirt  on 
a  handspic,— -then,  he  carried  his  head  all  of  a  hoo,  chin  toppin'  to 
port, — he  'd  lost  his  larboard  eye,  and  t'other  look'd  as  mi'st  as  a  bil'd 
gooseberry." 

^j  the  time  he  had  sketched  this  fanciful  p<H'trait,  we  had  arrived 
at  the  old  brig,  and  as  it  was  sunny  loitering  weather,  we  sheltered 
ourselves  under  her  shady  quarter,  when  he  thus  went  on : — 

"  Well,  you  must  first  of  all  know,  it  'is  exjractly, — let's  see,—- yes, 
exyactly  two^and-thirty  year  come  next  Pifi^y  *  twel'month,  that, 
one  jolly  fine  evening,  while  I  was  down  here  to  'conitre,  as  the 
French  calls  it,  a  brig  and  a  ship  hove  in  sight,  somewhere  here-a>way 
to  the  west'ard.  I  'members  the  time  well,  Uiere  was  just  enough 
wind  to  fan  the  duck  of  a  dandy's  yacht,  and  the  sea  was  as  smooth  as 
Doll  Coppice's  tongue,  and  the  moon  as  bright  as  her  eye. 

*  Epiphtny. 


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RATTERT   BROWN.  677 

"  Wdl,  yoa  see  I  wos  always  counted  sammat  'cute  in  dissarnment^ 
and  so  I  aoon  diskiver'd  that  though  the  yessels  wos  a  sailin'  in  coih- 
pany,  it  wam't  by  their  mutual  consent^  for  they  look'd  to  a  8eam«r 
about  as  lorin'  as  a  couple  of  pet  devils.  Well,  what  with  the  tme 
and  the  light  whifflin'  cats'  paws>  they  cum  up  hand  over  fist  and  re- 
ported themselves ;  one  wos  this  here  old  brig,  then  as  smart  a  pri- 
vateer at  ever  swum,  and  t'other  wos  a  rich  French  Ingee-man>  wot 
Battery  Brown  had  caplivcUed  in  a  most  winnin'  way,  after  a  hard 
fight,  when  all  but  under  the  guns  of  St.  Malo. 

'^  Lor'  a  massy  on  us,  what  a  nitty  followed  a'ter  they  fetch'd  into 
port.  Every  chap  in  '  The  Sea  Hawk/  that  wos  the  name  of  the  pri* 
vateer,  when  he  'd  took  his  share  o'  the  prize,  wos  as  fickle  as  a  flaw  o' 
wind  in  the  horse  latitudes.  One  dav,  p'r'aps,  you  'd  see  'em  togg'd 
in  a  pair  o'  gaff  to'sail  boots,  and  breets  a  taunto,  and  then  the  next, 
they  d  ship  a  long-tail'd  coat,  and  one  o'  your  flush-built  weskits,  and 
a  broad  brim'd  sky-scraper  over  all." 

"  And  the  captain's  share  was  enough  to  build  a  church  or  found  a 
hospital,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  for  old  Battery  wosn't  exsactly  the  feller  to 
let  everybody  into  his  secrets,  but  it  must  'a  pretty  well  flll'd  his 
lockers,  for  he  wos  a  hungry  dog,  and  it  so  mollified  him,  that  he  never 
went  to  sea  again." 

*'  Perhaps,  as  the  war  had  ceased,  he  had  no  opportunity  of  taking 
any  more  prises." 

*'  Well,  sartinly,  that  did  put  a  stopper  over  all,  and  so,  d'ye  see, 
he  hauled  the  '  See  Hawk'  into  this  here  berth,  where  her  old  bones 
are  now  rottin',  detarmined,  as  he  said,  to  die  as  he  had  liv'd,  on  the 
deck  of  the  craft  where  he  made  his  fortin." 

''  Besides,  he  saved  rent  and  taxes  by  this  novel  arrangement," 
said  I. 

"  Bent  and  taxes  be  damn'd ;  he  needn't  'a  minded  rent  and  taxes, 
no,  nor  cesses,  nor  work'us  rates  either ;  no,  he  didnH  jam  the  '  Sea 
Hawk'  in  this  here  no-manVland  sort  of  a  place,  for  they,— no,  no, 
that  had  nothin'  to  do  with  it,— -there  wos  a  screw  loose  about  the 
prize*  the  rights  o'  which  was  never  logg'd  ;  'twas  whisper'd  she  wos 
took  a'ter  the  peace  was  sign'd,  and  though  the  lawyers  settled  it  all 
the  right  way  for  the  captors,  yet  summut  stuck  in  old  Battery's  giz« 
zard,  for  the  rhino  never  did  him  no  good  whatsumever." 
**Howso?" 

''  How  so  ? "  my  maritime  friend  went  on  spouting  like  a  whale, 
<^  why  just  unravel  me  this  if  you  can :  afore  he  grappled  with  the 
Frenchman,  he  wos  as  fine  hearted  a  feller  as  ever  chipp'd  a  biskit, 
but  a'ter  he  'd  fin^er'd  their  gold  a  bit,  dam'me  if  it  didn't  transmo- 
grify 'n  into  a  timid,  gripin',  sour,  old  miser ;  took  to  lendin'  money 
at  interest ;  had  a  reg'lar  built  lawyer  chap  always  danglin'  in  his 
wake,  who  soon  convart'd  the  '  Sea  Hawk'  into  a  sort  of  marine  pawn 
shop,  I  tell  ye." 

''And  all  this  time  the  Captain  lived  aboard  the  brig  ?  "  said  I. 
*'  Liv'd,  no ;  I  didn't  say  liv'd ;  he  starv'd  in  her,  if  you  like,  for 
though  he  'd  got  the  writin's  o'  half  the  town  in  his  clutches,  and 
plenty  of  ready  to  boot,  yet  he  mess'd  about  as  well  as  a  rat  in  a 
ballast-lighter.  Howsomever,  'twas  n't  banyan  day  with  old  Battery 
always,  one  day  in  the  year  he  treated  hisseLP  to  a  good  blow  out,  any- 
how." 


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578  BATTERY   BROWN. 

*'  His  birth«day/'  said  1,  hazarding  a  conjecture. 

^*  No,  no,  not  his  birth-day ;  don't  suppose  he  'd  got  one>  or,  what 's 
the  same  thing,  'twasn't  logg'd  in  his  mem'rj.  No,  it  wm  on  the 
anae-irenarv  of  his  btegin'  the  French  Ingoc  laii ;  ^en  he  did  have 
a  glowwii  uoMiSij  m^s  diaaer  mm  reghaij  9A  Mit  iat  m  mmatk 


"  A  sort  of  sea- Waterloo  banquet  to  seme  of  his  companions  in  arms/' 
I  suppose. 

"  Yes,  they  wos  his  companions  in  arms  with  a  wengeance,"  re- 
plied old  Sindbad,  with  a  peculiar  grin  ;  ''  but.  Lor'  bless  ye/'  he  con- 
tinued, ''  they  wasn't  human  kreturs  wot  dined  with  old  Kattery." 

"  Pray,  who  were  his  guests  then  ?  " 

"  The  rum'ist  you  ever  yeard  on,  p'r  aps.  What  d'ye  think  o'  dining 
with  twelve  old  eighteen-pounder  guns  for  messmates  ?  " 

**  Rather  ironicfu  companions,  certainly." 

''  Well,  old  Rattery  on  that  day  always  gave  a  grand  feast  to  the 
twelve  guns,  that  sarv'd  his  turn  in  winnin'  the  fight  ag'in  the  French 
Ingee-man." 

''Ah,  I  understand,"  said  I;  ''the  guns  were  always  on  board, 
and " 

'^I  means  to  say,"  said  the  old  tar,  interrupting,  "that  he'd  a 
reg'lar  built  table  made  out  o'  the  mainmast  of  the  Frenchman, 
shipp'd  fore  and  aft  along  his  quarter-deck,  flush  up  to  which  his 
ffuns  was  ranged  chock-a-block,  with  their  great  black  wumAm  m 
m>wnin'  and  yawnin'  over  the  crockery,  as  if  they  meant  to  boh  every 
thing  afore  'em.  Ri^ht  under  their  mouths  was  piled  on  platters  tiie 
sort  o'  shot  best  kalkilated  for  the  nature  of  each  partic'lar  gun.  The 
long  eighteens  had  round,  bar,  and  chain,  as  best  suited  to  their  diges- 
tive organs,  and  the  carronades  tickled  their  gums  with  langridge, 
grape,  and  cannister;  lighted  port-fires  fizz'd  and  smok*d  away  at 
their  breechin's,  'sides  which  there  wos  a  dubble  allowance  o'  powder 
sarv*d  out  on  the  centre  of  the  table,  and  fire-buckets  full  o'  water  to 
slake  the  bumin'  throats  o'  the  guns,  wos  plac'd  alongside  of  their  side 
tackles,  while  fightin'  Ian  thorns,  wads,  ramrods,  and  sponges,  wos  spread 
about,  just  for  Sil  the  world  as  if  the  signal  for  battle  wos  flyin'  at  the 
main.  Well,  then,  by  way  of  makin'  all  ship  shape  and  brister  fashun, 
the  Union  Jack  was  h'isted  to  a  staff,  as  a  sort  o'  vice-president  to 
mad  old  Rattery,  who  sot  at  the  head  o'  the  table,  with  a  spankin' 
bowl  o'  smoking  hot  punch,  'ticing  enough  to  make  a  feller  wish  his 
throat  wos  a  mUe  long,  and  every  inch  on  it  palate,  right  afore  him ; 
and  then  he  'd  stick  a  queer  outlandish  mundungo  built  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  and  puff  away  like  a  limekiln,  I  tell  ye." 

"  What  an  eccentric  fancy,"  said  I. 

"  'Centric  fancy,  I  b'lieve  ye ;  but  avast  a  bit,  the  queerest  strand 
in  the  yard  is  yet  unlaid.  Well,  in  course,  the  guns  had  large  mouths, 
and,  as  they  'd  been  invited  out  to  dinner,  why,  in  course,  they  must 
be  fed  on  summat  'sides  their  common  fare,  so,  what  d'ye  think  he 
cram'd  into  their  iron  jaws,  by  way  of  a  treat  ?  " 

"  Can't  say,"  said  I,  "  hav'n't  the  least  idea." 

"  No,  nor  nobody  else  'cept  Old  Rattery ;  why  the  fusty,  musty 
yaller  parchments  wot  sarv'd  as  duplicates  for  the  money  he  'd  lent-* 
for  half  the  town  was  pawn'd  to  him — Lor'  bless  us  how  the  old  feller 
used  to  grin  at  the  notion  of  making  his  trusty  guns  first  win  the  gold 
and  then  do  duty  as  iron  safes,  and  fire-proof  deed  boxes." 


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ULTT£BY   BROWN.  579 

"  Well,  thus  surrounded  by  his  blazin'  YnSBm  h&  'd  larf  an'  talk  «• 
them,  and  be  as  happy  as  if  be  wos  in  the  midst  of  bis  rmia*  old  sea« 
dogs  of  his  younff  days.  It  vrm  as  eood  as  a  reg'lar-built  pbiy  ta^ae 
the  waiter  at  the  hotel  yonder — "Skio  always  attended  on  these  occa- 
sions— mimic  the  old  miser  when  the  punch  had  set  his  head-sails  a 
shiverin'  three  sheets  in  the  wind.  For  then  Old  Rattery  would  rise 
on  his  hind  legs  as  solemn  as  a  judge,  and,  a'ter  makin'  a  grand 
salaam  to  the  union  jack,  as  in  duty  bound,  he  'd  turn  to  his  guns 
and  begin  with,  *  Here 's  a  bumper  to  you.  Old  Bone  Crusher,'  for  you 
must  know,"  said  my  companion, ''  that  Old  Rattery  had  chrbtenad  hb 
guns  after  a  fieishion  of  his  own." 

"  *  Here 's  a  bumper  to  you,  Old  Bone  Crusher,'  says  he,  '  I  ve  not 
forgot  how  you  sarv'd  out  your  grape  and  canister.  HuiTah !  here 's 
a  full  bumper  to  you.' 

'''Here's  to  you,  Old  Sudden  Death,  ah !  ah  !'  and  the  miser  al- 
Ivays  giggled  at  the  remembrance  of  a  desolatin'  shot  horn  this  gun, 
fired  with  his  own  hand,  which  scatter'd  a  bunch  o'  chatterin'  French- 
men to  the  winds. 

"  '  Here 's  to  you,  my  twin  beauties.  Slaughtering  Bess  and  Tor- 
menting Sue.  Your  sweet  voices,  loaded  with  weighty  arguments, 
help'd  to  quicken  the  slow  wits  of  the  rascally  Frenclunen.  Here 's  a 
bumper  to  you.     Hurrah  1  hurrah  1 

" '  And  here 's  to  you.  Old  Orowler,  think  not  you're  forgotten ;  nor 

50U,  Old  Spitfire,  nor  you.  Old  Smasher,  nor  you.  Old  Blood  and 
*hunder.  No,  no,  you  re  all  faithfully  logg'd  here,'  layins  his  hand 
upon  his  heart, '  hurrah  !  hurrah  1  here's  bumpers  to  you  aU.' " 

"  The  heartless  old  viper  !*'  said  I. 

"'Twas  a  little  skeery  like,  wasn't  it?  Well,  the  day  a'ter  his 
anne-wersary  carousal  Old  Rattery  always  treated  his  self  to  another 
lark.  Early  in  the  morning  he  used  to  go  out  for  a  ride  in  a  r^'lar- 
built  chaise  and  pair,  always  coming  back  to  the  hotel  yonder,  where 
he  'd  try  to  pass  nis  self  off  for  a  stranger,  and  sham  to  know  nobody. 
Well,  of  course,  everybody  humoured  him,  and,  a'ter  dinner,  he  d 
stick  hisself  at  the  winder  and  pick  his  teeth,  and  loom  as  large  as  a 
pass'd  midshipman  about  to  dine  with  an  admiral.  '  Who  lives  there  ? ' 
says  he." 

"  Meanine  this  old  brig,"  said  I. 

"Sartingly.  Well,  you  might  as  well  'a  clapp'd  a  blister  on  a 
wooden  leg  as  try  to  thwart  him,  and  so  the  landlord  larfs  in  his  sleeve, 
and  says  it  belongs  to  one  Rattery  Broun." 

"  *  Rattery  Broun,'  ses  he,  appearing  to  overhaul  his  mem'ry. 
'  What !  does  my  old  shipmate  hang  his  flag  out  there  ?  '  Up  goes  the 
winder,  and  he  begins  a  hailin', '  Broun — Rattery — Old  Broun,  I  say,' 
in  course  nobody  answers.  '  Well,'  ses  he,  '  the  old  boy  never  would 
forgive  me  if  I  don't  give  him  a  hail,'  so  he  takes  his  hat  and  stick, 
opens  his  own  door,  and  goes  on  a  starvin'  for  another  year." 

"  And  what  became  of  this  mad  old  privateersman,"  said  I,  anxious 
to  hear  why  he  left  his  brig— 

*'  Handsomely  there,"  said  my  companion  ;  "  small  helm,  no  yawing, 
get  on  a  wrong  course  if  I  don't  mind.  Well,  you  see,  we  'd  a  larky 
sprightly  feller  here,  one  Tom  Collins  by  name,  he  'd  been  captain  of 
the  fo'ksle  of  the  Sea  Hawk  when  the  Ingee-man  struck  to  her  sides, 
which  he  an'  Rattery  had  sail'd  together  bye  and  large,  man  and  boy 
for  years,  until  I  'm  blow'd  what  with  being  summat  alike  at  startin' 


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580  RATTERY   BROWN. 

if  thej  didn't  copy  one  another's  action  and  speech,  until  at  last  they 
finish'd  by  bdng  as  like  as  a  couple  o'  round  shot.  Howsomerer,  they 
parted  company  over  the  settlin  of  the  prise-money ;  for  a'ter  that, 
they  couldn't  coil  their  ropes  t<^ether  nohow.  Tom  thought  he'd 
been  diddled,  and  determined  to  have  his  spite  out. 

"  Well,  the  time  comes  round  agen  for  Battery  Broun  to  go  through 
his  annual  tomfoolery,  and  Collins,  who  did  everything  with  a  sort  o' 
sudden  jerk — like  when  a  man  bites  his  own  ear  off — says  nothin'  to 
nobody  'cept  one  or  two  of  his  mates  wot  wos  to  be  in  the  joke,  and 
slily  slips  into  the  brig  through  one  o'  the  stam  winders,  and  bides  his 
time  when  Old  Rattery  hails  the  Sea  Hawk  from  the  hotel. 

''Well,  let's  s'pose  that  the  old  miser  had  taken  his  annual  land 
cruise,  finish'd  his  dinner,  and  is  a  standin'  at  the  winder  of  the  hotel. 
'  A  snug  berth  that,'  meaning  the  brig,  ses  he, '  'longs  to  some  old  tar, 
p'r'aps.'" 

"'You're  right,'  ses  the  landlord  a  larfin',  'it's  Rattery  BrounV" 

" '  'Deed,  why  he  'd  never  forgive  me  if  I  don't  give  him  a  hail. 
What  ho,  there !  Rattery  Broun !— what  cheer,  mate  1 — Sea  Hawk, 
ahoy!'" 

"  It  was  now  Tom  Collins'  turn  to  have  his  joke,  so  openin'  a  winder 
in  the  brig,  he  shoves  out  his  bald  head  a  shinin'  like  a  bladder  o'  lard 
in  the  dog  days,  with  his  whiskers  trimm'd  just  like  Old  Rattery's,  and 
answers  in  a  loud  voice, '  What  d'ye  want  ?-— who  hails,  eh ? '" 

"  Well,  at  the  sight  of  his  double,  back  the  miser  recoils  like  a  rusty 
carronade,  and  you  may  be  sartin  there  wos  the  devil  to  pay  and  no 
pitch  hot  when  he  found  that  somebody  was  aboard  his  brig  over- 
haulin'  his  money-bags  and  parchments." 

" '  Are  you  Rattery  Brown  ? '  ses  he,  in  a  thick  and  husky  voice, 
and  turning  as  many  colours  as  a  dying  dolphin." 

" '  In  course,  I  am,'  cried  out  Tom  Collins,  and  he  grinned  and  nodded 
friendly  over.     '  D'ye  want  anything  ?  ' " 

"  '  I  'm  he,  too,'  said  the  miser  sorrowfully,  and  he  begun  to  wring 
his  hands,  and  cut  as  many  capers  as  wou'd  a  sars'd  his  legs  o'  mutton 
for  a  month  o'  Sundays." 

" '  You  're  out  o'  your  reck'nin',  my  fine  feller,'  screech'd  out  Tom ; 
'you  're  only  the  thirteenth.  Come  over,  and  we'll  have  a  broadside 
together.' " 

'' '  Waiter,  my  hat  and  stick,'  ses  Broun,  discomfolidated  with  bis 
fears,  and  his  voice  sounded  as  holler  as  a  southerly  wind  in  an  empty 
grog-bottle.  'The  devil's  boarded  my  brig,'  so  sayin',  he  left  the 
room. 

"  Well,  there  stuck  Tom  Collins  at  the  brig's  winder,  all  the  time 
lookin'  as  happ^  as  a  king.  He  watch'd  Old  mttery  hobble  across  the 
shingle,  take  his  key  from  his  pocket,  unlock  the  door  in  the  vessel's 
side  and  enter,  and  then  down  he  dives  to  meet  him. 

"  Well,  those  wot  was  in  the  joke  larfd,  but  the  landlord,  and  the 
rest,  who  know'd  nothin'  about  it,  were  quite  flabbergasted,  for  I  'm 
bless'd  if  Tom  hadn't  rigp'd  hisself  so  like  Old  Rattery  that  if  the 
devil  had  come  to  claim  his  due,  he  couldn't  'a  told  one  from  t'other. 
Presently,  we  hears  a  jabbering,  and  a  noise  like  somebody  a  runnin' 
about  on  the  decks  o'  the  brig.  Well,  the  confusion  soon  increases, 
and,  while  we  wos  wondering  what  it  could  be,  we  hears  a  most  on- 
earthly  sound,  a  sort  o'  cross  twixt  a  creak  and  a  scream,  sharp  enough 
to  skin  a  feller's  teeth,  come  out  of  the  hull  o'  the  brig. 


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RATTERY   BROWN.  581 

'^  In  course  we  all  looks  in  the  whites  of  one  another's  eyes  for  a 
minnit>  for  this  screechin'  and  hollerin"  wasn't  in  the  bill  o'  the  pl&y* 
Well,  presently,  somebody  said  they  see'd  Old  Rattery  chas'd  by  Tom 
Collins  rush  past  the  open  port,  and  then  we  hears  a  thunderin' 
smashin'  o'  glasses,  and  a  heavy  fall  on  the  deck,  and  then  all  was  as 
still  as  murder.  We  began  to  think  that  Tom  had  carried  his  joke  too 
far,  and  somebody  knock'd  at  the  door,  but  the  only  answers  wos  the 
echoes  from  the  inside  o'  the  old  craft.  At  last  it  gets  too  tanterlizin' 
to  stand  any  longer,  and  so  I  and  one  '  Punchy  Abbot,'  the  stroke- 
oar  in  the  '  Daisy '  yonder,  manhandles  a  heavy  maul  and  smashes 
in  the  door,  and  up  all  sorts  o'  dark  winding  passages  we  rushes  to  the 
quarter-deck. 

•*  And  what  did  you  see  ?  " 

"  The  wreck  of  Old  Rattery's  fbast,  with  the  guns  still  at  the  din- 
ner-table, which  wos  covered  with  broken  wine-glasses  and  capsized 
bottles ;  on  it,  flat  on  his  back,  stretch'd  right  aUiwart  ships,  his  one 
eye   wide  open,  and  ready  to  start  out  of  his  head,  with  his  teeth 
clinch'd,  and  grinnin'  like  the  bars  of  a  helmet,  lay  Old  Rattery 
Brown.     He'd  ^prappled  some   of  his  precious    parchmints   in  his 
fright,  and  he  gnpp'd  'em  as  tight  as  a  shark  wou'd  a  dead  marine." 
**  But  you  recovered  him  from  his  fit,  I  suppose." 
'*  Fit,  he  warn't  in  a  fit ;  no,  his  line  had  run  out,  his  cable  was  at 
short  stay  peak,  and  afore  the  doctor  could  be  fetch'd,  he  was  as  stiff 
as  a  horse  mack'rel." 
"What,  dead!"  said  I. 

*'  Dead,"  said  my  companion ;  "  kill'd  with  Aright  at  the  thoughts  of 
being  robb*d,^for  Tom  never  laid  a  finger  on  him,— 'sides,  the  doctor 
said  there  wasn't  a  scratch  on  his  body.' 

"  And  what  account  did  Tom  Collins  give  of  the  affair  ?  " 
"  Well,  to  wind  up  and  make  a  finish  on  it,  nobodv  ever  could 
diskiver  the  right  'arnest  joinetry  o'  the  bisness,  and  Old  Rattrey's 
kinsfolk  all  got  on  the  wrong  course  when  they  tried  to  fathom  it  to 
the  bottom.  The  coroner's  jury  sot  on  the  body,  but  nothin'  par- 
tic'lar  leak'd  out  then,  thoueh  they  res'larly  overhauled  the  consam 
o'  both  sides,  tum'd  it  ind  for  ind,  and  sides  into  middle,  and  took 
soundin's  and  bearin's  o'  Tom  hisself." 
"  Cross-examined  him,  you  mean." 

"  Fr'aps  I  do.  Howsomever,  the  lawyers  let  loose  their  iawing 
tackle  at  him,  and  said  they  wou'dn't  take  his  Typsy  Dick  Sitt, 
though,  for  the  matter  o'  that,  Tom  was  sober  enough  at  the  time,  and 
so  they  swore  him  on  his  Bible  oath.  Yet,  a'ter  all  their  palaverin' 
and  chatterin'  they  cou'd  do  nothin'  with  him,  and  the  jury,  driven 
at  last  to  their  wit's  end,  brought  in  a  happy-go-luckv  sort  o'  verdict, 
that  nobody  'cept  theirselves  could  understand,  and  what  d'ye  think  it 
was,  eh  ?  " 

"  Manslaughter,  perhaps." 
"  Manslaughter ;  no,  no,  worse  nor  that." 
"  Worse  than  manslaughter.     What  could  it  have  been  then  ?  " 
''Why," — here  my  companion  rolled  his  huge  quid  from  one  side 
of  his  month  to  the  other,  as  though  he  wished  to  make  room  for  the 
hard  words  he  was  about  to  utter, — ''  why,  d'ye  see,"  said  he,  ''  the 
jury  said  that  the  Old  Miser  died  o'  the  powers  o'  conscience,  brought 
on  by  fright,  being  at  the  time  in  a  onsound  state  o'  mind,  or  CMkr^s 
Mentis. 


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582 
THE  FAIRY  CUP. 

BT     ALFBED    CBOWQUILL. 

Many  years  ago>  when  the  people  on  the  earth  were  free,  and  it 
took  less  to  make  a  prince  or  a  princess  than  it  does  in  the  present  day  ; 
when  people  were  rich  upon  a  little,  and  everything  was  rightfollj 
their  own  that  they  conld  catch ;  either  in  the  wild  woods  or  in  the 
silver  stream :  when  a  king  was  the  positive  representative  and  head 
of  the  people,  and  so  independent  as  to  care  very  little  ahout  any  bod  j^ 
and,  wnen  plenty  made  governing  easy :  when  no  man  had  to  pine 
after  the  possession  of  house  or  land  if  he  happened  to  be  strong  enough 
to  kick  tne  envied  possessor  out — ^who,  acknowledging  might  to  be 
right,  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  wended  his  way  to  pastures 
new,  or  sought  one  weaker  than  himself,  and  served  him  in  like  man- 
ner as  he  had  been  served  by  his  stronger  neighbour,  when  knocking 
out  a  man's  brains  was  thought  rather  a  spirited  thing,  and  the  mur- 
derer was  rewarded  accordingly  by  being  called  by  anything  but  his 
real  title. 

Oh !  .happy  ^^  many  years  ago,"  called  by  us  the  Oolden  Age,  for  no 
other  reason  than  for  the  great  scarcity  of  that  metal,  which,  in  its 
abundance,  with  strange  anomaly,  has  only  produced  this  Iron  Age, 
which  appears  every  day  to  get  more  rustv. 

Oh  1  that  now  was  ''a  go^  while  ago,'  when  romance  walked  with 
stately  step  and  a  positive  suit  of  tin,  through  the  wild  woods,  and 
rocky  passes,  and  you  had  a  chance  if  you  could  knock  hard  of  striking 
out  some  spark,  and  taking  possession  without  question  of  his  air-built 
castle.  Oh,  happy  times,  when  you  never  went  to  law,  that  not  being 
invented,  but  to  loggerheads,  which  is  much  the  same  thing,  only  leaving 
more  for  the  combatants. 

In  those  days — when  all  the  world  lived  by  what  we  call,  in  the 
refinement  of  this  age,  robbery,  merely  because  now  everything  seems, 
in  the  most  unaccountable  manner  to  be  claimed  by  somebody.  A 
man  might  ride  through  the  luxuriant  woods  and  lovely  sloping  glades, 
occasionally  meeting  with  a  fat  buck  that  he  could  shoot  down  at  his 
mighty  will  and  pleasure,  and  diiie  thereon  without  asking  my  lord  or 
my  lady,  then  calmly  take  a  nap  under  the  spreading  branches  of  some 
noble  tree,  upon  a  bed  of  most  unexceptionable  moss,  and  all  without 
anything  to  pay  for  trespassing. 

Even  the  authors  and  poets  of  that  day  were  to  be  envied ;  for  they 
had  the  power  of  publishing  their  own  works,  and  getting  a  very  good 
living  by  it.  One  of  these  envied  beings  was  indeed  a  whole  circu- 
lating library  in  himself;  for  when  any  impatient  damsel  or  expectant 
coterie  languished  for  some  particular  story,  they  were  obliged  to  send 
for  the  author,  who  only  yielded  his  treasures  by  word  of  mouth. 
They  were  also  the  great  ongin  of  our  present  newspapers,  for  through 
them  alone,  collecting,  as  they  did,  all  the  news  in  their  wanderings, 
could  be  obtained  the  chit-chat  and  murders  of  the  province :  and, 
considering  their  opportunities,  they  did  not  lie  more  than  their  printed 
representatives  of  the  present  day,  which  is  certainly  a  chalk  in  their 
favour.  All  this  ability  was  rewarded  with  the  warmest  comer,  the 
deepest  flagon,  and  the  finest  cut  from  the  chine.   This  is  not  often  the 


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THE   PAIRY   CUP.  683 

case  with  the  poets  of  this  miserable  age,  who  foolishly  print  their 
effusions,  and  stay  at  home  in  their  garrets,  very  often  without  any 
dinner  at  all. 

Pleasant  times,  indeed,  were  they  for  all  erring  humanity.  Young 
gentlemen  of  expensive  habits,  and  irregularity  in  their  cash  pay- 
ments, instead  of  being  summoned  themselves,  summoned  the  devil, 
who  immediately  put  in  an  appearance,  took  a  little  I.  O.  U  of  them, 
to  be  claimed  at  some  indefinite  period :  and  lo !  they  were  again  freer 
to  run  out  the  reel  of  their  folly  to  the  end. 

Now,  young  gentlemen  go  to  the  devil  in  a  very  different  way,  cer- 
tainly in  one  less  romantic. 

Fairies,  of  a  kind  and  beneficent  nature,  took  under  their  particular 
care,  young  handsome  travellers,  who  did  not  travel  as  they  do  in  the 
present  day,  for  any  particular  house,  but  who  went  out  to  seek  their 
fortunes — ^rather  an  indefinite  term  certainly.  But  in  that  golden  time 
there  were  a  great  many  waifs  and  strays,  almost  crying  *'  come  take 
me "  upon  every  highway.  So  that  a  man  blessed  with  a  sharp  wit 
and  a  sharp  sword — for  a  little  fighting  was  often  necessary — might 
tumble,  as  it  were,  headlong  into  luck,  and  find  himself  the  husband  of 
some  princess,  and  the  owner  of  a  castle  of  very  respectable  rubble  and 
limestone. 

Oold,  then,  was  pointed  out  by  amiable  gnomes,  who  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  it  themselves,  enriching  some  fortunate  mortal  who 
had  lost  his  way  and  his  inheritance.  Kings  and  bank  clerks  are  the 
only  privileged  ones  now  who  are  allowed  to  gloat  upon  so  much  col- 
lected treasure. 

In  fine,  then,  there  was  enough  for  every  body  and  to  spare.  Those 
kind  beings  have  all  gone  into  some  more  refined  sphere  than  this 
matter-of-fact  world ;  railroads  and  bricks  and  mortar  have  desecrated 
their  little  shady  nooks  and  gold-burthened  caverns,  and  all  that  we 
have  got  left  is  the  sweet  remembrances  of  their  freaks  and  goodness 
"  Once  upon  a  time." 

Therefore  I  love  to  rake  up  the  old  stores  of  my  memory,  and  intro- 
duce to  my  readers  some  few  of  those  quaint  mortals,  for,  that  they 
did  exist,  and  do  exist  now,  there  can  be  little  doubt,  or  how  other- 
wise could  their  private  histories  and  actions  have  been  chronicled  in 
all  our  early  works,  or  been  the  constant  theme  of  the  ancients,  who 
are  our  authority  in  all  learning  and  accomplishments,  even  in  the  pre- 
sent day  ?  If  we  doubt  their  Nips,  and  gnomes,  and  fairies,  why  do 
we  believe  their  Heros  and  Leanders,  their  Antonys,  their  Cleopatras, 
and  a  host  of  other  historical  beings? 

I  would  not,  for  the  world,  tear  out  the  early  leaves  from  my  book 
of  life,  for  I  have  to  turn  to  them  too  often  to  solace  me  for  the  many 
after  paees  of  sorrow  and  gloom  that  fate  has  chronicled  with  her 
changefm  pen.  So,  reader,  you  must  let  me  lead  you  back  into  fairy 
land,  and  I  will  shew  you  pictures  both  pleasing  and  instructive.  In 
my  experience  I  have  found  that  it  would  be  as  well  if  we  could  be 
children  oftener  than  we  are. 

Without  further  lament  over  what  has  gone  by,  ^x  your  eyes  upon 
my  erratic  page  and  see  what  is  to  come. 


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584  THE   FAIRY   CUP. 


''  Once  upon  a  time "  there  dwelt  in  the  soft  green  shadows  of  a 
primeval  wood  a  happy  woodman,  named  Hubert,  with  his  little  wife 
and  russet-cheeked  children.  It  was  the  sweetest  little  nest  the  eye 
could  rest  on.  Its  peaked  thatched  roof  was  mossy  and  green  frcin 
the  early  dews  shed  by  the  overhanging  gigantic  trees,  that  stretched 
their  branches  over  its  lowly  roof,  to  shelter  it  from  the  storm,  like  the 
mother-bird  spreads  her  wings  over  her  callow  brood.  Its  little 
twinkling  casement  caught  the  first  rays  of  the  momine  sun,  and 
sparkled  in  the  most  cheering  manner,  whilst  the  curls  of  the  graceful 
smoke  rolled  playfully  amidst  the  gnarled  branches,  and  lost  itself 
amidst  abundant  foliage,  startling  the  young  birds  in  their  airy  nests 
with  its  sweet  odour.  Oh,  it  was  a  happy-looking  spot.  It  seemed 
the  very  dwelline  of  peace,  who  fiies  from  the  palace  and  the  turmoil- 
ing  crowd,  to  find  only  in  the  simplicity  of  Nature  a  fitting  resting- 
place  for  her  pure  spirit. 

And  here  she  dwelt  indeed ;  simple  love  pointed  out  the  spot; 
peace  sat  upon  their  threshold,  whilst  contentment  gave  a  zest  to  all 
their  enjoyments.  There  could  be  no  solitude  there ;  for  the  ringing 
laugh  of  childhood  disturbed  the  echoes  in  the  deep  vistas  of  the  forest, 
and  the  birds  answered  from  the  high  branches  to  the  happy  notes  of 
the  ^amboUers  beneath  them. 

The  mother  watched  them  in  their  pla^  as  she  plied  her  wheel, 
whilst  a  happy  smile  played  in  her  eyes  with  a  brightness  so  full  of 
love  and  fondness,  that  the  last  ray  of  the  sinking  sun  retired  in 
dudgeon  at  beinff  surpassed  by  the  holy  light. 

The  night  stalked  forth  over  hill  and  jalley,  stretching  his  long  and 
shadowy  arms  afar  and  near  as  he  gathered  np  the  daylight  into  his 
dark  wallet,  when  Hubert  turned  his  weary  footsteps  to  the  home  that 
has  been  pictured.  He  plodded  through  the  tangled  path  with  a 
heavy  tread,  but  still  he  whistled  out  a  blithesome  air,  for  his  heart 
was  on  the  path  before  him,  and  he  thought  of  nothing  between  him- 
self and  his  home. 

But  there  was  something  in  his  path  that,  envying  his  sturdy  step 
and  lightsome  heart,  cowered  with  spite  amidst  the  underwood,  and 
threw  forth  before  him  the  twining  thorny  brambles  to  delay  him  on 
his  way.  It  was  one  of  the  evil  fairies  of  the  wood,  a  spirit  that 
gathered  the  deadly  bright  berries  from  the  branch,  and  mixed  them 
in  a  huge  stone  caldron  in  the  deep  recesses  of  the  rocky  ravine,  always 
dogging  the  footsteps  of  mortals  to  persuade  them  with  fasciaating 
wiles,  to  drink  from  her  fairy  cup,  which  auickly  destroyed  the  charm 
of  all  beside  in  nature ;  for  so  strong  was  the  draught  that  it  made  the 
dark  vawnine  precipice  ap[>ear  to  Uie  bewildered  sight  of  the  drinker 
a  luring  field  of  sweet-scented  fiowers,  and  bright  rippling  brooks, 
until,  in  his  insanity,  the  poor  deluded  victim  destroyed  himself  and 
all  he  loved,  and  found  too  late  that  he  had  sold  himself  as  slave  to 
his  wily  and  deceitful  tempter. 

At  a  sudden  turn  of  his  path  he  started,  on  beholding  at  the  foot  of 
a  gnarled  tree,  a  beautiful  female  figure,  with  a  dress  of  filmy  tex- 
ture, girded  with  a  bright  cincture  round  her  yielding  waist.  Her 
beautiful  limbs  appearing  and  disappearing  under  the  transparent  folds 
like  those  of  a  swimmer  who  disports  himself  amidst  the  green  waves 


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THE  FAIET  CUP.  685 

of  the  sea.  She  arose  with  downoast  looks  as  he  timidly  approached. 
Her  bright  eyes  fell  as  if  with  timid  modesty,  and  the  deep  roseate 
tinge  of  her  enamelled  cheek  grew  deeper  under  his  ardent  gaze. 

Hubert  doffed  his  cap,  as  this  beautiful  being  rose  from  her  recum* 
bent  posture,  but  stood  irresolute  and  embarrassed  by  the  awe-inspiring 
charms  of  the  creature  before  him.  At  last,  after  gazing  for  a  moment 
more,  he  summoned  up  his  courage  and  addressed  ner.  '^  Lady,"  said 
he,  '*  fear  me  not,  I  will  not  harm  you ;  if  you  have  wandered  from 
your  home,  or  missed  your  friends  in  the  intricacies  of  the  forest,  you 
can  have  no  surer  euide  than  your  humble  servant." 

A  smile  flitted  like  a  bright  b'ght  across  the  fair  hot  of  the  fsiry, 
her  lips  unclosed,  and  forth  issued  a  voice  as  melodious  and  enchanting 
as  the  softest  flute. 

**  Child  of  earth,"  said  she,  ^'  these  woods  are  my  home ;  I  am  the 
spirit  of  perfect  happiness.  Behold  my  magic  cup."  As  she  spoke, 
stie  held  up  to  his  view  a  small  cup  m  rare  workmandiip,  formed  in 
the  fashion  of  the  wild  bine  bell.  It  sparkled  with  a  sapphire-like 
lustre  at  every  movement,  as  drops  of  liquor  fell  like  diamonds  from  its 
brim.  *'  This  cup,"  continued  she, ''  was  given  me  by  the  fairy  Hope, 
who  never  IwikA  behind  her,  that  past  sorrows  and  misfortune  may  not 
cast  a  shadow  on  the  future.  Without  Hope  mortals  would  all  wither 
and  die  in  the  black  valley  of  despair ;  she  was  sent  to  encourage  them 
as  a  guiding-star  through  the  troubles  isif  the  world,  that  they  might 
reach  the  abode  of  perfect  happiness.  Few  mortals  meet  with  me 
while  living.  I  appear  occasionally,  and  let  them  drink  of  my  cup, 
when  I  think  they  deserve  from  their  goodness  to  participate  m  the 
ffodlike  draught*  You  have  I  chosen  to  be  (me  of  the  favoured; 
drink,  then,  and  yon  shall  become  greater  than  a  kins ;  your  burthen 
shall  be  as  down  upon  your  back,  imd  your  feet  shadl  lose  their  weari- 
ness ;  your  heart  shall  botmd  with  the  full  pnlse  of  felicity,  and  yon 
shall  be  borne  on  your  way  upon  wings  stronger  than  those  of  the 
inichty  eagle." 

Hubert  hesitated  as  the  bright  being  held  the  cup  still  nearer  to  his 
grasp.  His  extended  hand  appeared  as  ready  to  clutch  it,  but  doubts 
and  fear  withheld  him  from  grasping  its  slender  stem.  Another  mo- 
ment of  indecision,  and  it  was  pressed  within  his  palm ! 

'*  Drink,  mortal !"  said  she,  *'  and  become  almost  as  immortal  as 
myself.  It  will  encase  your  heart  with  armour  impervious  to  the 
shafts  of  care,  and  rabe  your  crest  to  the  bearing  of  the  fearless  war- 
rior. You  slmll  be  no  longer  serf  and  vassal,  but  the  lord  of  all  that 
surrounds  yon ;  seeing  through  its  influence  the  hidden  treasures  of 
the  world  that  now  unheeded  sparkle  boieath  your  feet ;  where  the 
gnomes  who  hate  mankind,  have  hidden  it  from  the  sight  of  all  but 
those  who  have  courage  to  face  the  dangers  of  the  Fairy  world.  The 
flends  of  avarice  and  ambition  seized  upon  the  heart  of  the  simple 
woodman.  To  be  rich  !  to  be  great !  perfect  happiness !  what  soloen 
promises !  The  soft  bewitching  voice  of  the  fairy  still  whispered  with 
silvery  tones  in  his  ear  the  fascinating  words.  Foolish  mortal  f  was  he 
not  already  richer  than  a  king  in  the  love  of  his  wife  and  children ; 
was  he  not  ^eat  in  his  honest  simplicity ;  and  had  he  not  enjoyed 
perfect  happiness  beneath  the  roof  of  his  lowly  sequestered  cot. 

He  looked  for  one  moment  upon  the  lustrous  eves  of  the  being  before 
him,  and,  as  if  fascinated,  drained  the  magic  goblet  at  a  draught. 

What  gushes  of  enrapturing  pleasure  rushed  through  his  bounding 

VOL.  XXIII.  X  X 


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586  THE  FAIRY    CUP. 

veins — ^his  stalwart  frame  seemed  to  dilate  as  he  yielded  the  cup  to  the 
ready  hand  of  his  tempter. 

The  vistaed  trees  melted>  as  it  were,  from  their  rugged  forms  into 
towering  pillars  of  shining  marble  of  the  most  dazzling  whiteness  ;  the 
greensward  rolled  like  waves  from  beneath  his  feet,  and  he  stood>  with 
the  mysterious  being  by  his  side,  upon  a  flight  of  porphyry  steps  that 
led  to  a  palace  of  interminable  terraces,  towering  in  their  magnificence 
even  to  the  blue  arch  of  the  heavens. 

The  load  fell  from  his  shoulders,  and  was  seen  no  more ;  the  tremor 
left  his  heart  as  he  gazed  upon  the  wonders  around  him,  and  he  felt  as 
if  he  had  wings  that  would  carry  him  to  the  topmost  height  of  that 
wondrous  palace.  Vases  tempted  him  on  either  hand,  laden  with  the 
treasures  of  the  mine,  whilst  jewels  invaluable  were  scattered  at  his  feet 
in  numbers  vieing  with  the  pebbles  on  the  sea-shore.  Music,  soft  and 
delicious,  wrapped  his  senses  in  a  delicious  delirium,  ever  and  anon 
swelling  into  a  lively  measure,  prompting  him  to  bound  forward  in  a 
wild  and  rapid  dance.  As  he  progressed  through  the  magnificent  halls, 
the  attendant  fairy  kept  plyins  him  with  draughts  from  her  bewilder- 
ing goblet  of  sapphire ;  until  ne,  grown  bolder  at  every  draught,  tore 
it  from  her  grasp  and  quaffed  with  a  maddening  delight  the  precious 
liquid  ;  when  suddenly  the  palace  and  its  wonders  quivered  before  his 
sight  like  motes  in  the  sunbeam,  and  gradually  melting  into  splendid 
rainbow  tints,  sunk  into  a  black  and  sudden  darkness — the  rest  was 
all  oblivion ! 

The  voice  of  lament  rang  through  the  forest  as  Hubert's  wife  bent 
over  his  unconscious  form ;  the  cry  of  children  arose  shrilly  on  the 
night-air,  and  awakened  him  to  a  half-dreamy  consciousness.  A  stare 
of  almost  idiotcy  upon  his  pale  and  haggard  face,  as  he  gazed  at  the 
miserable  and  distracted  group  that  surrounded  him,  made  their  fond 
hearts  turn  cold. 

They  had  sought  for  hours  for  him  in  the  mazes  of  the  forest,  and  at 
last  discovered  him  apparently  dead  at  the  foot  of  an  aged  oak.  With 
trembling  and  uncertain  foot  he  accompanied  them  to  his  home, 
muttering  strange  words  as  he  went,  to  the  dismay  of  his.  fond  wife 
and  children.  When  they  arrived  at  their  hitherto  peaceful  home,  he 
sank  powerless  upon  the  humble  pallet,  and  fell  into  a  deep  slumber. 

The  next  morning  harsh  words,  for  the  first  time,  answered  to  his 
wife's  anxious  inquiries  as  to  what  had  been  the  cause  of  his  strange 
accident.  Without  tasting  the  morning  simple  meal,  he  shouldered 
his  axe,  and  wended  his  way  moodily  into  the  recesses  of  the  forest, 
leaving  a  deep  shadow  over  the  brightness  of  his  home.  As  he  disap- 
peared through  the  trees,  his  wife  pressed  her  little  ones  to  her  breast 
and  wept  aloud. 

Days  and  months,  weary  and  sad,  rolled  on,  and  the  noble  form  of 
the  woodman  became  a  wretched  ruin.  He  saw  his  once-loved  cot  and 
its  inhabitants  withering  daily  before  his  eyes,  yet  still  he  sought  the 
fascinating  being  who  gave  him  a  fieetine  heaven  for  a  lasting  pain. 
The  drooping  wretch  no  longer  raised  his  hand  to  labour,  but  lingered 
listlessly  through  the  glades  of  the  forest,  craving  for  the  appearance 
of  the  being  who  was  to  lead  him,  at  such  a  fearful  cost,  to  lands  of 
vision  and  madness. 

Morning,  with  her  rosy  fingers  and  balmy  breath,  opened  the  wild 

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THE  FAIRY  CUP.  587 

flowers  throagh  the  woods  and  valleys,  shootine  as  if  in  sport  ber  gold- 
en arrows  through  the  whispering  leases,  startling  the  birds  from  their 
sleep  to  sing  their  early  matins. 

Night  gathered  up  the  dark  folds  of  her  robe,  and  retreated  majes- 
tically before  the  coming  light,  leaving  her  sparkling  gems  of  dew 
trembling  upon  every  stem  and  flower. 

***♦•* 

With  downcast  look  and  melancholy  brow  came  the  young  mother ; 
her  eye  beheld  not  the  flowers  that  strewed  her  path,  and  her  ear  was 
deaf  to  the  early  songs  of  the  birds ;  tears  trembled  on  her  eyelids,  and 
fell  unconsciously  down  her  pale  cheek.  Her  lingering  step  ceased  as 
she  approached  a  rustic  basin,  formed  of  rude  blocks  of  stone,  into  which 
the  water  had  been  turned  6rom  some  neighbouring  springs. 

As  she  raised  the  vessel  which  she  carried  in  her  hands  to  immerge 
it  in  the  sparkling  waters,  she  was  startled  bv  seeing  them  bubble  and 
rise  until  they  leaped  over  their  stone  boundary  in  copious  streams  to 
her  feet.  Hardly  had  she  time  to  wonder  at  this  strange  phenomenon, 
when  she  beheld  a  dwarf-like  figure  rise  from  the  midst.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  quaint  costume  and  looped- up  hat,  which  was  dripping 
with  moisture,  apparently  not  at  all  to  his  inconvenience,  for  he  leaned 
upon  the  edge  of  the  basin,  while  his  little  figure  continued  still  half 
submerged,  with  a  comfortable  and  satisfied  look. 

As  she  continued  to  gaze  at  the  odd  object  before  her,  undetermined 
whether  to  stay  or  fly,  he  politely  raised  his  hat,  and  bade  her  not  be 
alarmed.  '^  For  I  have  come  out,"  said  he,  '^  this  morning  on  purpose 
to  meet  you,  and  to  try  and  remedy  the  sorrow  which  is  devouring  you. 
I  say  '  remedy,'  for  you  must  understand  I  am  the  natural  universal 
doctor.  In  fact,"  continued  he,  while  a  sly  smile  passed  across  his  co- 
mic little  face,  *'  your  human  doctors  apply  to  me  upon  all  occasions ; 
indeed,  without  me  they  could  not  exist,  though  they  never  let  their 
patients  know  it,  for,  if  they  did,  they  would  all,  poor  deluded 
wretches !  come  direct  to  me,  and  ruin  the  whole  of  the  fraternity. 

"  1  have  more  power  than  any  sprite,  fury^  or  gnome  that  exists ; 
the  whole  earth  itself  is  under  my  control.  These  mighty  trees  would 
never  raise  their  towering  heads  without  me ;  no  flower  would  bloom 
a^  their  rugged  feet,  nor  would  the  soft  mossy  carpet  so  grateful  to 
your  feet  live  for  a  moment  if  I  did  not  sustain  it  by  my  magic  aid.  I 
am  ordained  to  yield  continual  good  wherever  I  am  present.  I  creep 
amidst  the  wild  flowers  and  bid  them  bloom ;  I  climb  the  snake-like 
vine,  and  hang  it  with  the  rich  clustering  grape,'and  all  the  fruits  of 
the  earth  await  my  summons  to  burst  their  bonds  and  yield  their  trea- 
sures to  the  human  race. 

*'  I  wander  into  other  lands,  and  bear  back  rich  am)sie8  laden  with 
jeweb  and  gold  to  deck  the  brow  of  noble  beauty ;  Idash  down  from 
rocky  heights  headlong,  to  fertilize  the  teeming  valleys ;  my  voice  is 
heard  like  the  roaring  thunder,  and  anon  like  the  softest  music  in  the 
shady  solitudes,  as  I  whisper  on  my  way  through  the  reeds  and  the 
water-lilies.    Where  I  am  not,  all  must  droop  and  die. 

"  I  have  watched  you  lone,  when  you  sought  me  in  your  early  days 
of  happiness  and  love,  until  young  blossoms  like  yourself  sprung  up 
around  you,  and  paddled  with  their  tiny  feet  in  my  cool  and  crystal 
waters.  Then  your  song  was  of  the  merriest  measure,  but  now  the 
echoes  mourn  in  silence  die  absence  of  your  melodious  voice,  and  your 
sighs  alone  break  the  stillness.    Your  pale  face  has  been  reflected  in 

X  X  8 


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588  THE  FAIBT  CUP. 

these  water8»  untQ  I  felt  and  knew  that  aome  Uight  had  fallen  upon 
your  happiness  which  as  yet  had  never  shrunk  under  the  cankering 
breath  of  care. 

A  little  bright  rill,  that  had  wandered  to  play  with  the  wild  blos- 
soms in  this  wood,  returned  to  me,  and,  prattling  by  my  side>  told  me 
of  the  dreadful  delusion  under  which  your  hitherto  good  and  stalwart 
husband  laboured.  I  watched  him  as  he  came,  with  dejected  look,  so 
unlike  his  former  self,  to  lave  his  burning  brow  in  my  cooling  waters. 
I  quickly  saw  what  fairy  demon's  hand  had  so  destroyed  the  goodly 
form  and  noble  heart  of  my  ooor  woodman.  Here  was  the  dadow 
that  fell  over  your  pure  brow,  orained  jwu  young  heart,  and  ailenoed 
the  song  that  made  this  no  longer  a  soUtude. 

'*  Listen  to  me,"  continued  he,  **  and  I  will  endeavour  to  save  him. 
If  you  can  persuade  him  by  the  eloquence  of  your  love,  and  the  picture 
of  the  ruin  that  day  by  day  encompasses  your  all,  to  attend  strictly  to 
my  warning,  I  will  rescue  him  horn  the  overpowering  spell  <tf  the 
fascinating  demon  that  enthrals  him. 

''I  will  give  him  a  talisman  so  powerful,  that  the  scales  shall  drop 
ham  his  eyes,  and  his  destroyer  appear  in  her  own  proper  hideous 
colours,  when,  if  he  has  any  love  left  for  those  whose  sole  dependence 
is  on  him,  he  will  resolutely  baffle  all  the  attempts  made  to  seduce  him 
again  into  the  world  of  viaotts  dreams  and  indolence." 

As  he  eoncluded>  he  sunk  beneath  the  waters.  The  young  wife 
stood  entranced,  with  hope  beating  in  her  heart,  and  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  bubbles  as  they  rose  to  the  surface,  doubting  almost  whether 
wnat  she  had  heard  was  not  a  delusion  of  her  distracted  brain. 

Another  moment,  and  the  benevolent  sprite  again  appeared,  hold- 
ing in  his  hand  a  globe  containing  a  liquid  that  shone  like  a  pure 
diamond. 

"  Take  this,  and  let  your  husband  keejp  it  with  him,  and  when  the 
deluding  demon  approaches  him,  to  mystify  him  with  her  machinations, 
let  him  drink  from  the  small  aperture  in  this  globe,  and  he  will  in- 
stantly see  her  in  her  demoniac  form.  Let  him  persevere,  and  she 
will  fly  from  him,  and  you  and  he  will  be  saved  ana  restored  to  peaea 
Farewell." 

As  she  clasped  the  bottle  with  eager  hand,  he  sank  amidst  a  thou- 
sand sparkling  bubbles,  and  she  was  alene.  Quickly  she  sped  throu^ 
the  tangled  way,  for  her  feet  were  winged  by  love,  and  by  hope  that 
had  long  lain  drooping.  The  cottage  door  was  soon  reached,  where 
sat  the  pale  form  ot  her  husband>  his  Uoodshot  eyes  turned  languidly 
towards  her  as  she  approached.  But  he  was  soon  roused  from  his 
listless  posture  bv  seeing  the  excitement  of  h^  manner,  and  listenii^ 
So  her  strange  tale,  which  he  would  have  doubted,  had  she  not  shown 
him  in  triumph  the  bright  globe  given  her  by  the  sprite  of  the  spring. 

Her  almost  childish  delight,  strange  to  say,  hardly  met  with  a  re- 
sponse in  his  bosom,  for  the  charm  of  his  daily  enchantments  he  seemed 
to  feel  a  hesitation  to  relinquish,  they  appeared  te  his  bewildered  sense 
all  that  was  worth  living  for. 

Her  heart  sunk  with  almost  a  death-like  pai^  but  she  bade  him 
drink  from  the  jewel-like  bottle.  A  deep  shudder  shook  his  atte- 
nuated frame  as  he  did  so.  One  moment,  and  his  pallid  features 
flushed  as  he  beheld,  for  the  first  time,  the  ruin  and  desolation  of  his 
home.  He  stood  an  abashed  and  guilty  man  bef<nre  his  loving  wife 
and  little  innocent  children. 


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GOD   WILL  BEFRIEND  THE  RIGHT.  589 


Huberty  armed  with  good  resolves  and  bis  stout  axe,  affain  entered 
the  forest^  his  heart  palpitating  with  an  indescribable  feebng,  as  if  in 
doubt  of  the  power  of  the  talisman  to  shield  him  from  the  feiscination 
of  his  deluder.  Hardly  had  the  stroke  of  his  axe  awakened  the  echoes 
of  the  forest*  when*  through  a  shady  yista*  he  saw  the  light  form  of 
the  fairy  tripping  over  the  greensward*  with  upraised  cup  and  joyous 
laugh^  as  she  recognised  him  at  his  labour.  Strange  thrills  rushed 
throuffh  his  frame  as  she  approached  nearer  and  nearer;  strange 
thoughts  hovered  in  his  mina  of  throwing  his  wife's  talisman  from 
him>  and  once  more  clasping  that  tempting  cup  that  shone  even  in  the 
distance  like  a  bright  amethyst. 

But  a  shadow  ^11  over  the  bright  form*  and  her  resplendent  eyes 
glared  with  a  fiendish  look  as  it  approached  nearer  to  the  spot. 

He  seized  the  talisman*  and  drank  of  its  pure  and  bright  contents. 
On  the  instant^  the  forms  of  his  wife  and  children  encircled  him  in 
fond  union,  as  a  barrier  between  him  and  the  evil  spirit.  Affain  he 
drank*  and  as  he  did  so*  shuddered  with  horror  as  he  beheld  a  lambent 
flame  rise  from  the  hitherto  craved  goblet  of  the  fiend. 

The  beautiful  locks  which  playea  round  the  brow  of  the  false  one* 
twined  into  writhing  snakes*  and  brisht  burning  scales  rose  upon  her 
fair  bosom,  her  face  became  distorted  with  horrible  passion.  Hubert 
could  behold  no  more  *  he  placed  his  hand  across  his  eyes  to  shut  out 
the  fiend*  and  in  a  moment  he  was  alone. 

•  *  *  *  * 

That  night*  as  the  moon  threw  her  silver  tribute  on  the  rippling 
waters  of  the  lowly  well,  Hubert  stood  with  his  arm  around  the  waist 
of  his  happy  wife.  They  were  silent  and  expectant.  They  both 
hoped  to  see  the  benevolent  being  who  had  given  them  the  powerful 
talisman  to  free  them  from  the  destroying  spirit. 

They  saw  him  not,  but  a  voice  fell  on  their  listeniuff  ears*  saying* 

"  Qo,  Hubert*  and  be  happy  in  the  love  of  your  wire  and  children. 
True  happiness  dwells  only  with  the  innocent  and  temperate.  The 
talisman  I  save  you  is  the  pure  water  of  the  earth*  that  yields  it  for 
the  good  of  all  nature*  animate  and  inanimate*  on  its  bosom. 

"The  Fiend  you  have  escaped  is  called  Intemperance." 


GOD  WILL  BEFRIEND  THE  RIGHT. 

BT   O.   LlXKilUB   BAVKf. 

Man,  in  thy  Maker's  image  made.  The  toiling  one  may  suffer  shame, 

Born  to  a  glorious  heritage ;  May  feeLthe  wcnd't  hard  blow  and 

Shall  passion's  voice  thy  soul  invade,  slight ; 

And  blot  the  fair  etesnal  page  ?  Bring  no  dishonour  on  thy  name, 

Dismiss  the  tyrant  from  thy  breast  I  And  then,  God  will  befriend  the  right. 

Be  pure  and  spotless  in  His  sight  i  ^ ,         ,     .         ^  _^          -  ,.- 
WhatSve^  pangsVevent  thy  rest,  Above  the  fiercest  rtonn  of  hfe, 

Be  sure,rjwTb.frieJ  the 'right.  ^L^^T.^S^'^rWdl^ 

It  dwells,  and  smues  upon  its  foes. 

Not  wealth,  but  virtue  has  His  care,  «f<,  triumph  in  that  cloudless  sphere. 

The  worldly  peat  He  passes  by,  ^^^^  f^  the  bloodless  mortal  fight, 

Yet  listens  to  the  humblest  prayer,  »|»hy  buckler /aOA,  and  iruOi  thy  spear  ; 

And  lifts  the  fainting  spirit  high.  ^^  g^^  imd  will  befriend  the  right. 


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590 


CAREER  OF  LOUIS  PHILIPPE  AS  A  SOVEREIGN. 

BY  J.   WARD. 

Wb  shall  pass  over  the  incidents  of  the  fallen  monarch's  early  life^ 
which  everybody  is  presumed  to  know> — his  long  and  bitter  trials^ 
which  everybody  commiserates^  —  the  wisdom  and  sagacity  which 
experience  was  said  to  have  taught  him,  and  which  everybody  used 
to  extol,  —  and  place  ourselves  in  his  presence  on  the  eve  of  his  as- 
cending the  throne  of  France,  the  facts  connected  with  which  are 
known  to  few,  although  they  form  the  keystone  to  his  after-life. 

On  the  SIst  of  July,  1830,  we  were  detained  for  an  hour  at  Auxerre, 
on  our  road  from  Lyons  to  Paris.  We  had  left  much  excitement 
behind  at  Lyons ;  but  as  we  approached  the  metropolis  the  storm 
visibly  increased.  At  Melun  the  whole  population,  men,  women, 
and  children,  were  anxiously  looking  out  for  the  diligence  south- 
ward. The  definitive  success  of  the  revolution  was  known,  but  not 
the  form  into  which  the  government  would  be  resolved.  The  peo- 
ple were  not  only  prepared  for  a  republic,  but  expected  it ;  and  when 
the  conducteur  of  the  diUgence  informed  them  that  the  Duke  of  Or- 
leans had  accepted  the  Ueutenance  ginirale  of  the  kingdom,  they 
were  evidently  surprised,  disappointed,  and  mortified. 

But,  how  had  Monsieur  le  Conducteur  obtained  his  information, 
for  he  had  by  some  hours  anticipated  the  denouement  f  It  was  not 
until  the  noon  of  the  day  that  Louis  Philippe  and  Lafayette  came  to 
an  understanding ;  and  up  to  the  last  moment  the  people  in  Paris 
were  in  the  dark.  How  did  it  happen  that  the  "  coming  event  cast 
its  shadow  before  "  at  a  distance  of  fifty  miles  from  Paris,  while  the 
Parisians  themselves  had  no  apprehensions  of  it?  They  do  not 
appear  even  to  have  suspected  such  an  event,  until  they  saw 
Louis  Philippe  escorted  by  the  deputies  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and 
even  then  tney  did  not  know  in  what  capacity  they  were  to  recog- 
nise him.  His  reception  was  so  cold  and  doubtful,  that  he  well 
might  have  dreaded  the  d^but  he  was  about  to  make  as  a  king.  Had 
there  been  one  audacious  demagogue  to  shout  a  veto  upon  his  no- 
mination to  the  throne,  he  would  have  been  undone,  for  the  public 
felt  that  they  were  about  to  be  deceived.  But  the  clap-trap  was  all 
on  his  side.  Lafayette  waved  over  his  head  the  flag  of  the  old  re- 
public, and  the  giddy  people  believed  that  by  this  idle  spell  he  had 
reconciled  monarchy  with  democracy.  A  bargain  so  lightly  made 
was  not  likely  to  be  much  respected  on  either  side,  and  it  was  soon 
broken. 

That  Louis  Philippe  had  long  speculated  upon  a  possible  revolu- 
tion, which  would  offer  him  a  chance  of  the  crown,  there  can  be  no 
question.  His  close  intimacy  with  the  republicans,  and  the  support 
which  he  lent  to  their  cause  both  in  purse  and  person,  are  facts 
known  to  all.  For  this  he  must  have  had  some  strong  motive — love 
of  his  country,  or  love  of  the  house  of  Orleans.  That  he  had 
narrowly  watched  the  conduct  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  committee 
during  the  three  "  days  of  July,"  is  evident  from  the  errors  which 
he  has  since  committed,  and  the  false  conclusion  which  he  drew 
from  their  want  of  spirit  and  decision  on  that  occasion.  How- 
ever ready  the  populace  of  France  may  be  to  precipitate  them- 


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CABEER   OF   LOUIS  PHILIPPE.  591 

selves  into  a  revolution,  her  professed  politicians  have  usually 
shewn  much  caution  in  mistaking  treason  for  patriotism ;  and  in 
1830  they  especially  betrayed  a  want  of  unanimity  and  decision. 
On  the  26th  of  July,  M.  Laborde  called  a  meeting  at  his  own 
house,  at  which,  with  a  few  others,  he  contended  for  proclaiming 
the  people  absolved  from  their  allegiance,  by  the  King's  violation 
of  the  charter ;  but  M.  Perier,  on  the  contrary,  maintained  that, 
in  point  of  strict  law,  the  obnoxious  ordomiances  might  be  recon- 
ciled with  the  letter  of  the  constitution.  It  wa^  neither  their  privi- 
lege  nor  their  duty  to  assert  either  the  will  or  the  rights  of  the 
people.  He  was  for  leaving  the  King  and  the  people  to  fight  the 
quarrel  out  between  themselves.  He  and  other  leaders  (?)  of  the 
people  were  content  to  hold  what  he  termed  une  pontion  superbe  ; 
but  they  kept  aloof  from  the  struggle,  and  contended  that  all  would 
be  lost  if  thev  abandoned  the  strict  line  of  legality.  This  was  a  yety 
convenient  doctrine  to  preach. 

M.  Lafayette  now  appeared  on  the  stage  (on  the  28th) ;  but  even 
his  enthusiasm  could  not  warm  the  fans  froid  of  his  colleagues. 
Ouizot,  Sebastiani,  Dupin,  and  others,  still  refused  to  stir  without 
the  pale  of  the  law,  and  dared  not  venture  to  compromise  their  own 
safety.  They  lingered  on  the  safe  side  of  the  line  of  demarcation 
between  loyalty  and  rebellion,  afraid  of  quitting  the  neutral  position 
of  mediation ;  and  even  the  greatness  which  they  were  destined  to 
achieve  in  the  course  of  the  next  twenty-four  hours  was  thrust  upon 
them  by  one  of  the  most  singular  hoaxes  on  record.  An  ingenious 
person,  M.  Berard^  conceived  that  the  people  would  be  much  more 
animated  in  their  proceedings,  if  they  had  the  semblance  of  some 
authority  to  back  them ;  and  he,  therefore,  boldly  announced  an 
imaginary  provisional  government  of  his  own  creation,  consisting  of 
Generals  Lafavette  and  Gerard,  and  the  Due  de  Choiseul.  This 
government  of  course  had  no  existence ;  but  the  people  believed  in 
it,  and  their  faith  gave  a  new  impulse  to  their  fury,  which  before 
had  betrayed  some  symptoms  of  exhaustion.  The  troops  reeled 
under  the  shock — the  throne  trembled;  and  when  Perier  and 
Guizot  saw  what  a  charm  there  was  in  the  name  of  a  provisional 
government,  though  a  fictitious  one,  they  no  longer  withheld  their 
assent  from  the  formation  of  a  real  one. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  as  to  Louis  Philippe  being  minutely  in- 
formed of  the  vacillation  and  timidity  of  the  liberal  hommes  d*itat  of 
France  during  the  three  days  ;  and  he  must  have  been  excessively 
provoked  by  the  want  of  decision  and  spirit  which  kept  him  so  long 
in  suspense  about  his  chance  of  the  crown.  Nor  must  we  be  sur- 
prised that,  once  safely  seated  on  the  throne  (as  he  thought),  he 
should  ever  afterwards  feel  a  certain  degree  of  contempt  for  them* 
He  must 'have  seen  that  he  had  little  to  fear  from  them,  if  he  could 
manage  the  people  by  finesse  and  force ;  and  he  appears  to  have 
thought  that  the  people  themselves  had  only  been  successful  against 
Charles,  because  they  had  been  deluded  into  an  unmerited  con- 
fidence in  their  leaders,  which  was  not  likely  to  be  repeated  after 
their  sorry  performances  in  the  great  drama  of  July.  His  error 
consisted  in  not  perceiving  that,  he  would  be  a  loser  instead  of 
a  gainer  by  the  abenation  of  the  people  from  such  milk-and-water 
conspirators ;  that,  if  these  men  had  retained  their  hold  upon  the 
confidence  of  the  people,  the  proved  incapacity  of  the  former  for 


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S92  CAREER  OF 

organising  another  revolution,  and  their  personal  fears  of  the  con- 
sequences of  such  an  experiment,  would  have  been  the  best  gua- 
rantee of  his  security.  He  did  not  reflect  that  the  people,  on 
another  occasion,  might  have  other  leaders,  men  more  uncom- 
promising and  audacious,  who  would  have  much  less  to  risk,  and 
much  more  to  gain,  by  a  bold  dash  at  the  government  than  the 
hesitating  gentlemen  of  the  Hotel  de  ViUe. 

The  (Edition  of  the  republicans  and  legitimists  against  Louis 
Philippe  commenced  almost  from  the  very  first  day  of  his  reign ; 
but  it  was  effectually  crushed  in  the  Smeute  of  1833.  The  Due  de 
Broglie,  Lafitte,  and  Perier  had  then  successively  essayed  the  task 
of  forming  a  firm  administration ;  but  they  had  all  failed,  and 
Lafitte,  hopelessly  excluded  from  the  cabinet  while  the  king  ruled 
it,  began  openly  to  organise  an  agitation  for  a  republic  One  hun- 
dred and  forty  deputies  assembled  at  his  house,  and  signed  a  compie 
rendu  of  their  objects,  but  prudently  confined  themselves  to  con«« 
stitutional  means  for  their  achievement.  There  were  so  many  dis- 
turbing forces  in  action  at  that  period,  that  it  is  impossible  to  define 
clearly  the  share  which  this  cample  rendu  had  in  producing  the  ouU 
break  at  the  funeral  of  Lamarque ;  but,  although  warrants  were 
issued  against  M.  Gamier  Pag^  and  others  of  the  party,  it  is  quite 
certain  that  they  abstained  fW»m  personal  compromise,  as  they  did 
in  1830.  Nothing  could  be  brougnt  home  to  them,  and  it  is  fair  to 
assume  that  they  did  not  know  exactly  what  they  intended  to  do. 

From  this  time  Louis  Philippe  threw  off  all  affectation  of  attach- 
ing the  republicans  to  his  dynasty.  He  felt  satisfied  that  he  esti- 
mated their  courage  and  power  rightly ;  and,  with  this  impression 
on  his  mind,  as  he  had  nothing  to  f^ar  from  them,  he  left  them 
nothing  to  hope  from  him.  Had  he  conducted  himself  otherwise 
towards  them,  it  is  possible  that  the  republicans  might  have  died 
away,  as  the  Carlists  did,  in  the  subsequent  ten  years ;  but  having 
declared  his  final  separation  from  them,  they  boldly  declared  their 
utter  detestation  botn  of  his  principles  and  his  ingratitude. 

Louis  gave  a  last  audience  to  the  republican  leaders,  MM.  Lafitte, 
Arago,  and  Odillon  Barrot ;  but  it  was  not  to  reason  with  or  soothe 
them.  Paris  was,  at  the  moment,  in  a  state  of  siege ;  the  roar  of 
artillery  and  the  shrieks  of  the  people  were  a  fitting  introduction  to 
the  conversation  which  ensued ;  and  the  monarch  nimself  had  just 
returned  from  the  conflict  animated  by  the  consciousness  of  victory. 
Odillon  Barrot  began  by  deploring  the  fatal  disorders  which  had 
taken  place,  and  lagged  the  King  to  put  an  end  to  the  effusion  of 
blood.  Louis  appeared  unmoved,  except  that  a  flush  of  triumph 
passed  over  his  brow,  when  Barrot  assumed  a  different  tone.  **  De- 
plorable as  these  disorders  were,"  he  desired  to  add,  "  the  people 
were  fully  excused  by  the  conduct  of  the  government,  which  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  the  principles  of  July,  and  whose  meanness  had 
not  only  led  to  the  calamities,  but  would  lead  eventually  to  anarchy 
and  civil  war."  The  King  asked  him  to  be  precise,  and  explain  in- 
telligibly what  he  wanted.  Barrot  replied,  "  That  he  and  his  friends 
had  come  to  implore  the  king  to  silence  the  cannon,  which  were 
even  then  hurling  destruction  among  the  citizens,  and  to  prevent 
further  calamities  by  an  immediate  and  complete  return  to  the  prin- 
ciples which  had  placed  him  on  the  throne." 

"  No,"  replied  the  king,  haughtily,  '*  audaciously  attacked  by  my 


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LOUIS  PHILIPPE.  59S 

enemieSy  I  am  onlj  exerasing  mj  Witiinate  right  of  §M  defence. 
The  time  is  come,  gentlemen,  when  the  principle  of  revolt  must  be 
put  down;  and  I  employ  cannon  only  to  have  done  with  it  the 
sooner.  As  to  the  pretended  engagements  and  republican  pledges, 
into  which  it  is  said  I  entered  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville  on  the  day  of  my 
accession,  I  know  not  what  they  mean.  I  have  overfulfilled  all  tfa^ 
promises  I  made,  and  revived  more  than  enough  of  republicanism  in 
the  institutions  of  the  state.  Those  pledges  exist  onlv  in  the  imagi* 
nation  of  M.  Lafayette,  who  is  certainly  under  some  delusion." 

Barrot  said  that  he  was  sorry  to  hear  that  they  had  ail  been  under 
a  delusion,  and  that  he  saw  no  hope  of  repose  for  France  unless  the 
administration  was  entrusted  to  those  in  whom  they  could  confide. 

"  That  is  another  delusion,"  retorted  the  king.  '^  You  blame  my 
ministers ;  but  it  is  unjust  to  give  them  either  the  blame  or  the  praise 
of  the  system  which  I  have  followed.  It  is  my  own ;  the  result  of 
my  own  experience  and  reflection.  It  is  founded  on  the  prindplet 
upon  which  I  would  have  consented  to  take  the  crown ;  and  they 
shall  hash  me  in  a  mortar  before  I  will  abandon  it." 

The  two  most  arbitrary  sovereigns  by  whom  France  had  ever  been 
ruled,  Louis  the  XIV.  and  Napoleon,  never  asserted  greater  preten- 
sions than  did  Louis  Philippe  at  the  meeting  we  have  just  described. 
Louis  the  XIV.  had  his  mat,  Viiat  c'eH  mon  ;  Napoleon  copied  it,  f*e 
9uis  VHai;  and  Louis  Philippe  very  closely  imitated  it  when  he 
answered,  jt  suU  U  gauvernement, 

^*  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  my  ministers,  gentlemen,"  quoth 
the  monarch,  ^'i£  there  is  anything  wrong,  it  is  /  am  the  author 
of  it" 

The  kinff,  however,  and  his  friends  of  the  ^*  Three  days"  stood  in 
a  wrong  relation  to  each  other  from  the  first.  The  latter  never  could 
divest  themselves  of  the  idea  that  Louis  was  under  a  personal  obliga- 
tion to  them  for  his  throne,  and,  presuming  too  much  upon  this, 
they  soon  made  themselves  disagreeable  at  Court.  They  hoped, 
also,  to  gain  something  for  themselves  by  the  revolution,  and  what 
were  the  loaves  and  fishes  at  the  king's  disposal — though  in  France 
the  government  b  not  without  patronage — among  so  many  ?  They 
also  considered  themselves  entitled  not  only  to  b^,  but,  more  odious 
still,  to  advise.  Louis  might  have  borne  with  their  importunities, 
but  their  impertinences  were  intolerable ;  he  became  disgusted,  and 
shook  them  off,  to  use  M.  Sarran's  expession,  '*  to  starve  under  the 
eye  of  a  throne  of  which  they  were  the  pedestals."  Still,  he  did  not 
behave  well ;  he  could  not,  because  his  professions  of  principle,  and 
still  more  his  promises  of  personal  favours,  had  excited  expectations 
which  it  was  out  of  his  power  to  fulfiL 

After  the  suppression  of  the  imeuie  in  1832,  Louis  reigned  with 
tolerable  comfort  for  nearly  four  years.  He  played  with  Dupin, 
but  found  him  untractable.  The  crotchety  lawyer  refused  to  be 
made  a  political  machine.  Louis  Philippe  next  tried  his  hand  upon 
Soult,  wnose  discipline  under  Napoleon,  rendered  him  more  manage- 
able. With  Ouisot,  Thiers,  and  Broglie,  a  working  cabinet  was 
formed,  which  struggled  through  many  difficulties,  until  1835,  when 
the  oppressive  "  laws  of  September  "  against  the  press  were  enacted, 
and  the  fall  of  the  ministry  was  consummated. 

From  '35  to  '40,  when  the  re-establishment  of  Ouizot  in  power  was 
permanent,  the  government  of  Louis  Philippe  was  continually  in  dif- 


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594  CAREER   OF  LOUIS   PHILIPPE. 

£culties  and  dangers ;  but  it  is  very  evident  that  the  king  designedly 
contributed  more  to  its  embarrassment  than  any  other  person.  He 
consented  that  M.  Mol^  should  try  the  experiment  of  conciliation^ 
but  with  the  thorough  conviction  that  it  would  fail^  and  that  the 
repressive  system  would  then  be  submitted  to  as  the  only  possible 
system  of  governing  the  country.  How  much  secret  service  money 
was  distributed  by  M.  Mole's  coadjutors,  Montalivet  and  Salvandy^ 
in  the  work  of  conciliation  has  never  been  made  known ;  but  if  we 
are  to  judge  by  the  sum  which  M.  Guisot  required  when  he  took 
the  administration  out  of  their  hands,  they  had  rendered  it  impos- 
sible for  any  minister  to  manage  the  chambers  without  the  grossest 
corruption.  M.  Guizot,  indeed,  boldly  challenged  the  chamber  of 
deputies  to  answer  whether  it  was  possible  for  him  to  command  a 
majority  of  their  votes  unless  they  granted  him  a  supply  of  money 
for  the  purchase  of  them,  and  the  chamber  with  unblushing  effrontery 
answered  the  question  in  the  negative  by  voting  the  sum  required. 
Before  a  body  could  so  disgrace  itself  in  the  face  of  £urope,  venality 
must  have  come  to  be  considered  as  a  privilege ;  and  there  can  be 
little  doubt,  that,  in  addition  to  the  enormous  sums  which  the  cham- 
bers voted  for  their  own  corruption,  the  King,  from  his  immense 
private  resources  as  well  as  his  exorbitant  civil  list,  materially 
assisted  his  Ministers  in  the  work  of  political  prostitution. 

We  now  arrive  at  the  last  link  in  that  long  chain  of  corruption 
which  Louis  Philippe  had  so  industriously  forged  for  accomplishing 
his  political  aims.  When  M.  Guizot  seized  the  reins  of  power  the 
political  atmosphere  was  completely  tainted,  no  man  could  breathe 
freely,  or  assume  an  independent  attitude,  every  one  felt  afraid,  as 
all  were  conscious  of  having  received,  directly  or  indirectly,  some 
favour  from  the  reigning  influence  of  the  day.  Men  viewed  each 
other  with  distrust,  as  no  one  knew  to  what  extent  they  were  indivi- 
dually compromised;  but  all  felt  a  conviction  that  they  were  not 
sinless  and  untainted. 

During  the  latter  years  of  his  reign,  Louis  Philippe  affected  little 
secrecy  in  the  uses  to  which  his  enormous  resources  were  applied  for 
strengthening  and  extending  the  dynasty  of  his  family;  and  it  is 
some  palliation  for  his  seeming  selfishness,  m  letting  his  servants  down 
the  wind  when  he  had  done  with  them,  that  few  of  them  had  done 
anything  for  him  which  they,  had  not  been  paid  for  beforehand. 
Under  such  a  system  as  this,  so  rotten  at  the  core,  can  we  wonder 
that  the  ex-monarch  had  scarcely  one  friend  in  his  extremity  }  But 
he  had  sown  the  seed,  and  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  reap  the 
harvest. 

We  have  not  space  to  detail  the  arts  and  contrivances  by  which 
Louis  Philippe  attempted  to  establish  his  dynasty.  Every  observing 
and  reflecting  man  in  Europe  foresaw  that  Louis  Philippe's  system 
could  at  the  utmost  only  last  his  own  time,  even  if  he  did  not  pre- 
cipitate its  destruction  by  some  blunder  of  his  own.  Society  in 
France  was  becoming  so  thoroughly  disorganised  that  it  could  not 
be  held  together  when  relieved  from  the  pressure  of  his  own  hand, 
even  could  he  have  maintained  his  grasp  during  his  life-time.  Its 
reconstruction  by  a  revolution  had  become  a  social  necessity  which 
must  have  been  obeyed  within  the  next  ten  vears,  and  it  adds  some- 
thing to  the  force  of  the  lesson  that  he  should  have  survived  to  wit- 
ness the  catastrophe  of  a  drama  in  which  he  played  so  important  a  part* 


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595 


A  JOURNEY  FROM  SHIRAZ  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF, 

WITH  AH   ACCOUNT   OF 

OAZELLE-HUNTINO  ON  THE  PLAIN  OF  BU8HIRE. 
BT   THB   HON.  C.  B.  SAYILB. 

On  the  28th  of  March,  we  took  our  departure  from  Shiraz.  Our 
first  day's  journey  lay  along  a  circuitous  defile  leading  through  the 
lofty  mountains  which  bound  the  southern  extremity  of  the  plain  of 
Shiras ;  so  rugged  was  the  road  along  which  lay  our  course,  that  it  was 
not  until  long  after  sunset  that  we  arrived  at  Cawal,  a  small  and  soli- 
tary village,  nine  fursoks  (about  thirty-two  miles)  distant  from  Shiraz. 
The  howling  and  squalling  of  the  wolves  and  jackals  commenced  imme- 
diately after  dark,  and  continued  without  intermission  during  the 
night. 

The  following  morning,  when  about  a  fursok  from  Cawal,  we  arrived 
at  the  banks  of  a  very  rapid  river,  which  we  crossed  by  means  of  a 
bridge,  in  such  a  ruinous  state,  that  it  appeared  scarcely  able  to  sustain 
the  weight  of  our  mules.  It  was  fortunate,  however,  that  it  was  pass- 
able, as  it  would  have  been  completely  impossible  for  us  to  have  forded 
the  river,  on  account  of  its  rapidity  and  depth.  We  now  arrived  at  the 
foot  of  a  very  steep  and  rocky  cotall,  (mountain-pass,)  where  we  break- 
fasted beneath  some  almond-trees  in  full  blossom.  A  quantity  of  beau- 
tiful flowers  grew  upon  this  spot,  which  was  one  of  the  most  lovely  I 
had  seen,  since  leaving  <<  the  smiling  Georgia.**  Having  finished  our 
meal,  we  proceeded  to  ascend  the  pass,  which  was  rendered  a  task  of  no 
ordinary  difficulty  by  the  steepness  and  ruggedness  of  the  rocks. 

On  arriving  at  the  central  point  of  the  cotall,  we  came  upon  one  of 
the  most  magnificent  cataracts  I  had  ever  beheld,  it  was  of  gpreater 
breadth  and  depth  than  the  falls  of  the  Rhine ;  the  scene,  indeed,  was 
most  imposing,  and  the  noise  of  the  waters  almost  deafening.  On 
descending  upon  the  plain  we  were  overtaken  by  a  thunder-storm,  the 
terrible  effects  of  which  will  remain  for  ever  engraved  upon  my  memory. 
For  about  half-an-honr  there  was  some  intervd  between  the  flashes  of 
lightning  and  the  peals  of  thunder,  but  at  length  the  storm  broke  just 
over  our  heads.  The  heavens  became  one  blaze  of  fire,  while  crash 
followed  crash  so  rapidly,  that  not  even  a  momentary  pause  ensued 
between  the  peals. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  began  to  ascend  a  cotall,  in  comparison  to 
which  the  mountain-passes  we  had  previously  crossed  were  as  level 
plains.  After  great  toiling  we  arrived  at  the  summit,  to  look  down 
from  which  made  us  giddy.  We  descended,  however,  in  safety  to  the 
valley  below,  thanks  to  the  surefootedness  of  our  excellent  horses,  and 
shortly  afterwards  arrived  at  Firousabad,  a  village  beautifully  situated  in 
the  midst  of  date-gproves.  The  inhabitants  were  most  civil  and  hospi- 
table, and  having  conducted  us  to  an  excellent  lodging,  they  supplied  us 
with  milk,  rice,  and  dates.  The  sheik  soon  afterwards  paid  us  a  visit. 
He  was  an  Arab  of  exceedingly  agreeable  address  and  informed  us  that 
we  were  the  first  Faringees  he  had  ever  seen. 

It  would  be  well  worth  while  for  an  antiquary  to  remain  a  few  months 


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596  A   JOURNBY  FROM  SHIBAZ 

at  Firousabad,  as  it  presents  numerous  appearances  of  having  in  former 
days  been  a  place  of  great  importance,  size,  and  strength.  There  are  a 
quantity  of  ruins  around  it,  bearing  many  signs  and  marks  of  fbrUfica- 
tions,  of  which  several  watch-towers  are  in  a  good  state  of  preservation. 
The  village  is  surrounded  on  every  side  by  mountains,  exceedingly  diffi- 
cult of  access,  and  is  plentifully  supplied  with  water. 

Shortly  after  resuming  our  journey  we  arrived  at  the  banks  of  a  rapid 
river,  or  rather  mountain -torrent,  the  bridge  across  which  having  been 
washed  away,  we  attempted  to  ford  it  in  several  places^  but  without 
success,  as  it  was  far  out  of  the  depths  of  our  horses,  and  the  stream 
was  of  such  force  and  velocity  that  to  have  essayed  swimming  across 
would  have  been  madness.  Just  as  we  were  beginning  to  despair  of 
getting  across  that  day,  and  were  about  to  retrace  our  steps  towards 
Firousabad,  we  espied  some  peasants  on  the  opposite  bank,  whom  having 
hailed,  they  directed  us  to  a  ford  about  a  mile  down  Uie  stream,  the 
passage,  however,  was  not  performed  without  danger,  and  we  were 
nearly  losing  all  our  baggage-mules. 

We  had  ridden  for  several  hours  along  the  plain  when,  just  as  we 
were  passing  by  a  small  grove  of  dwarf  oaks,  we  started  a  wild  boar,  and 
as  our  guns  were  slung  over  our  shoulders,  we  could  not  resbt  the 
temptation  of  chasing  it,  and  away  we  gallopped  in  pursuit.  I  soon  suc- 
ceeded in  heading  the  monster,  and  in  lodging  a  ball  in  his  back,  which 
did  not  appear  to  take  much  effect.  One  of  our  Persian  servants  now 
rode  up,  when  the  boar  suddenly  wheeling  round,  chained  furiously  at 
the  steed,  which  was  only  just  saved  by  the  admirable  horsemanship  of 
the  rider,  from  having  its  legs  ripped  up.  The  Persian  having  wheeled 
round,  came  again  to  the  attack,  and  firing,  the  ball  broke  the  foreleg  of 
the  grisly  brute  who,  notwithstanding  his  wounds,  held  on  at  a  rapid 
pace.  I  had,  however,  by  this  time  procured  a  spear  from  another  of 
the  servants,  and  having  again  come  up  with  the  boar,  I  made  a  thrust 
at  his  left  shoulder  and  was  fortunate  enough  to  pierce  him  to  the  heart, 
when  he  fell  over  with  such  force  that  the  weapon  snapped  in  my  hand. 

The  scenery  of  the  extensive  plain  over  which  we  were  journeying 
was  most  beautiful,  and  plentifhlly  wooded  with  almond-trees  and  dwarf 
oaks.  Some  of  the  neighbouring  mountains  were  covered  to  the  very 
summit  with  these  species  of  tree^  which  prevented  them  having  that 
barren  and  rugged  appearance  common  to  the  hills  of  the  northern  and 
central  provinces  of  Persia.  Quantities  of  rhododendron  grew  around, 
which  gave  the  appearance  of  artificial  shrubberies  to  portions  of  our 
route. 

At  the  extremity  of  the  plain  of  Firousabad  we  crossed  another  cotall 
covered  with  stunted  wood  and  luxuriant  grasses,  and  having  descended 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  mountains,  we  breakfasted  near  a  rivulet 
flowing  through  a  small  wood.  The  ground  was  covered  with  thousands 
of  flowers,  and  looked  like  a  richly-ornamented  carpet  fresh  from  the 
looms  of  Hamadan  or  Yezd.  The  climate  was  very  much  warmer  than 
that  of  Shiraz,  as  we  were  fast  descending  to  the  level  of  the  sea.  The 
plain  on  which  we  were  now  travelling  was  dotted  with  the  black  tents 
of  many  Eliaut  encampments*  For  several  hours  a^r  sunset  we 
rode  along,  lighted  by  a  most  brilliant  moon,  and  about  ten  o'clock  we 
halted  at  one  of  the  tents  just  mentioned,  where  we  were  plentifully 
supplied  with  milk  and  eggs,  and  having  reposed  for  a  while,  we  again 
resumed  our  journey. 


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TO  THB   PERSIAN   GULF*  697 

The  EUauts,  or  wandering  tribes  of  Persia,  resemble  the  Turcomans, 
but  are  much  more  civilised.  They  haye  often  been  described,  and  one 
good  picture  serres  for  all,  for  they  are  little  subject  to  change ;  and, 
while  every  tradition,  and  every  work  on  the  ancient  hbtory  of  Persia, 
proves  that  many  of  its  more  southern  inhabitants,  particularly  those  of 
the  mountains  of  Kerman  and  Lauristan,  have  been  nomade  or  wander- 
ing tribes  from  time  immemorial,  we  find  in  the  Turkish  Eliauts,  who 
have  overrun  the  northern  provinces,  the  language,  the  habits,  and  the 
appearance  of  the  Tartar  race,  to  which  the^  belong.  The  qualities 
most  prised  amongst  these  tribes  are  courage  in  men  and  chastity  in 
women. 

About  midnight  we  arrived  at  an  isolated  village,  where  we  passed  the 
remainder  of  the  night,  having,  during  the  course  of  that  day's  route, 
performed  the  distance  of  fifteen  fursuks,  without  counting  the  ground 
gone  over  ^ring  the  chase  after  the  wild  boar. 

Early  on  the  following  morning,  we  crossed  another  cotall,  and  then 
breakfasted  at  an  Eliaut  encampment,  where  our  wants  were  attended  to 
by  some  very  handsome  women,  whose  bright  black  eyes  and  cheerftil 
countenances  helped  to  enliven  the  repast 

Our  route,  during  the  greater  portion  of  the  day,  lay  along  a  yalley 
covered  with  trees  and  thick  crops  of  barley  nearly  ready  for  the  sickle. 
The  surrounding  country  was  green  to  the  \ery  mountain  tops,  and  it 
seemed  to  us  that  we  were  riding  over  a  magnificent  carpet  of  various 
hues  and  colours.  I  was  fortunate  enough  in  the  afternoon  to  get  with- 
in a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of  a  large  antelope,  which  I  killed  with  a 
shot  from  my  rifle.  Thb  was  a  much  more  valuable  prise  to  us  than 
the  wild  boar  <d  the  previous  day,  as  Mussulmans  have  no  scruples 
with  regard  to  the  flesh  of  the  deer. 

In  the  evening,  we  halted  at  a  village,  the  inhabitants  of  which  con- 
sisted partly  of  Arabs,  partly  of  Persians.  The  chief  or  sheik  paid  us  a 
very  long  visit  He  was  an  old  man,  and  exceedingly  talkative.  Among 
odier  topics  be  introduced  that  of  Hindostan,  which  country  he  had  seen 
a  little  of,  some  thirty  years  previously.  His  notions,  however,  ni  geo- 
graphy were  very  imperfect,  and  all  our  explanations  could  not  make 
him  comprehend  that  England  was  not  in  India ;  and  although  he  was 
too  polite  to  say  so,  he  evidently  did  not  give  the  slightest  credence  to 
our  assertioos  of  London  (which  he  knew  very  well  by  name)  being 
more  than  four  oMnths'  sea  voyage  from  Calcutta. 

The  villagers  having  by  some  chance  heard  that  one  of  our  party  was 
a  hakim  (doctor),  be|^  immediately  to  flock  to  the  house  at  which  we 
were  lodging,  and  bring  in  their  sick  brethren.  One  of  the  first  invalids 
whose  case  came  under  examination  was  an  old  man,  for  whom  ^e  doc- 
tor prescribed  a  moderate  use  of  wine.  Now  the  juice  of  the  grape,  and 
indeed  all  fermented  liquors,  are  rigorously  forbidden  to  Mussulmans 
by  the  law  of  their  prophet ;  but  shmild  it  be  prescribed  by  a  hakim,  a 
dispensation  can  be  granted  by  a  moolah  (Persian  Mahometan  prieet)k 
No  sooner,  therefore,  was  the  remedy  bruited  i^oad,  than  every  one 

S resent  seemed  to  have  been  seized  with  illness,  and  many  persons  ^ 
oth  sexes  pushed  themselves  forward,  complaining  of  low  spirits,  cramps 
in  the  stomach,  and  general  debility,  in  the  hope  ^  obtaining  the  wished- 
for  dispensation ;  for  the  love  of  wine  and  money,  and  the  gratification 
of  their  sensual  passions,  are  the  prominent  features  in  the  Persian  cha- 
racter.    In  the  present  instance,  it  was  the  first  time  that  the  villagers 


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598  A  JOUBNET  FROM  SHIBAZ 

had  ever  beheld  a  Frank  hakim;  and  as  in  the  East  the  medical  skill  of 
Europeans  is  magnified  to  a  degree  almost  beyond  belief,  our  arrival  had 
occasioned  a  most  intense  degree  of  excitement  among  the  inhabitants 
of  this  usually  quiet  spot.  Much  curiosity  was  also  raised  by  our  guns ; 
some  debating^  however,  took  place  about  their  being  fit  for  use^  as  se- 
veral veterans  considered  them  as  serviceable  in  the  way  of  ornament 
only,  notwithstanding  we  bore  with  us  a  trophy  in  the  body  of  the  ante- 
lope I  had  shot  that  afternoon.  To  convince  the  g^od  people  of  their 
error,  we  took  our  fire-arms  into  the  open  air,  and,  having  loaded  some 
of  them  with  shot  and  the  remainder  with  ball,  we  fired  the  former  at 
some  sparrows  seated  upon  a  tree  at  a  short  distance,  and  made  consi- 
derable havoc  among  them.  This  exploit  caused  great  admiration,  which 
was  increased  to  absolute  wonder,  when  we  fired  some  bullets  into  a 
wooden  board  at  the  distance  of  eighty  yards.  What  most,  however, 
surprised  the  villagers  was  the  depth  to  which  the  balls  had  penetrated. 
Our  firearms  were  now  lauded  to  the  skies,  and  various  hints  were  given 
that  a  present  of  a  gun  would  be  most  acceptable,  as  it  would  serve  to 
kill  the  wolves  that  infested  the  country  during  the  winter ;  and  much 
sadness  appeared  on  the  visages  of  all,  when  we  replaced  the  much  de- 
sired firearms  in  our  lodging,  without  replying  to  the  numerous  hints 
given,  the  usual  Persian  phrase  of  "  It  is  not  mine,  but  yours." 

I  had  been  asleep  for  about  two  hours,  when  I  was  awakened  by  a 
slight  noise,  which  seemed  to  be  occasioned  by  some  one  stealthily  creep- 
ing along  the  room.  On  my  crying  out  '^  Who  is  there  ?"  I  received  no 
answer,  while  at  the  same  time  the  noise  ceased.  Having,  however,  my 
suspicions  aroused,  I  struck  a  light,  and  made  a  narrow  search  through 
the  chamber,  when,  on  looking  behind  some  yekdons  (large  trunks)  and 
saddle-bags,  I  discovered  a  man  concealed  there.  I  immediately  grap- 
pled with  him,  when  he  drew  his  cummar  and  made  a  stab  at  me,  which 
fortunately  missed  my  breast,  and  but  slightly  wounded  me  in  the  left 
shoulder.  Seizing  hold  of  the  armed  hand  of  the  miscreant,  I  raised  an 
alarm,  when  my  companions  and  our  servants  came  to  my  assistance ; 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  robber  was  securely  bound  with  cords.  On 
searching  his  person,  we  found  a  brace  of  pistols  and  a  bag  of  keraunies, 
which  he  had  just  stolen  from  a  portmanteau.  The  man  now  beseeched  us 
to  let  him  g^,  swearing  by  Allah  and  Ali  that  he  would  never  be  guilty 
of  such  a  crime  again.  As,  however,  he  had  added  an  attempt  at  assas- 
sination to  that  of  robbery,  we  kept  him  a  prisoner  until  daylight,  and 
then  conducted  him  before  the  sheik,  who  of  course  appeared  most  in- 
dignant at  what  had  happened,  and  talked  of  sending  him  to  Shiraz  for 
execution. 

During  the  whole  of  this  day,  which  was  the  first  of  April,  we  found 
the  weather  excessively  hot,  as  we  were  fast  descending  to  the  level  of 
the  sea,  and  were  besides  in  a  very  southern  latitude.  The  country 
over  which  we  rode  was  at  times  exceedingly  rocky  and  precipitous,  but 
at  the  same  time  covered  with  verdure  of  the  most  luxuriant  freshness, 
and  variegated  with  innumerable  flowers.  Here  was  a  spot  for  a  botanist 
to  revel  in  !  for  such  an  one  would  be  continually  discovering  plants 
hitherto  unknown  to  European  Linneeus. 

In  the  course  of  our  day's  journey,  we  passed  by  many  date  groves, 
which  fnve  a  very  picturesque  appearance  to  any  spot  on  which  they 
grow.  Dates  are  so  plentiful  here^  that  the  natives  feed  their  horses  upon 
them. 


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TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF.  699 

The  following'  morning,  having  ridden  for  several  hours  under  a  very 
hot  sun,  we  came  upon  a  heautiful  mountain  stream,  the  very  sight  of 
which  refreshed  our  thirsty  souls.  But,  alas  !  all  is  not  gold  that  glit- 
ters ;  for,  upon  taking  a  long  draught,  I  felt  as  though  I  were  poisoned, 
for  nothing  was  ever  more  nauseous  or  bitter  than  the  waters  of  this 
stream,  which  seemed  a  combination  of  Epsom,  Cheltenham,  Harrow- 
gate,  and  every  other  spa  that  has  existed  since  the  world  began.  Every 
stream  we  now  passed  was  of  the  same  flavour ;  and,  although  almbst 
raging  from  the  effects  of  thirst,  we  were  unable  to  appease  our  suffer- 
ings, as  no  villages  lay  along  our  path.  All  we  could  do,  therefore^  was 
to  smoke  the  pipe  of  patience,  until,  after  the  lapse  of  several  hours,  we 
came  upon  an  Eliaut  encampment,  where  we  procured  some  goat's  milk, 
which  appeared  to  our  parched  throats  like  a  draught  from  the  goblet  of 
Hebe,  although  it  was  brought  to  us  by  a  hideous  old  crone. 

In  the  evening,  we  arrived  at  the  brink  of  a  precipice  of  almost  per- 
pendicular steepness,  to  descend  which  appeared,  at  first  sight,  totally 
impracticable.  We  reached  the  base,  however,  in  safety,  though  not 
without  having  undergone  much  fatigue  and  incurred  great  danger.  All 
the  cotalls  I  had  previously  passed  over,  excepting  that  to  the  north  of 
Firousabad,  were  as  gentle  descents  in  comparison ;  and  it  was  to  our 
great  joy  that  we  were  informed  that  it  was  the  last  mountain  pass  we 
should  meet  with,  as  we  were  nearly  on  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  within 
six  fursuks  of  the  Persian  Gulf. 

Having  reached  the  base  of  the  precipice,  we  perceived  at  a  short  dis- 
tance some  Eliaut  tents,  to  which  we  proceeded  and  requested  a  lodging 
for  the  night.  We  were,  according  to  the  usual  custom  of  the  nomade 
tribes,  most  hospitably  treated,  and  the  best  of  their  simple  fare  was  laid 
out  before  us.  The  condition  of  these  Eliauts  was  far  from  being  as 
happy  as  that  of  the  wandering  races  we  had  hitherto  encountered ;  for 
although  they  were  encamped  in  a  beautiful  and  fertile  country,  they 
were  deprived  of  that  chief  necessity  of  life,  good  water.  Their  situa- 
tion was  that  of  Tantalus,  for  they  were  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  lim- 
pid streams,  of  which  they  were  unable  to  drink  from  their  brackishness. 
Rain-water  collected  in  pits  formed  their  sole  resource,  excepting  during 
the  autumnal  months,  when  melons  and  other  juicy  fruits  abound.  Their 
cattle,  however,  drink  of  the  brackish  waters,  without  sustaining  any 
injury. 

It  is  not  out  of  place  here  to  compare  one  pass  with  another ;  and  in- 
deed, after  having  for  the  first  time  crossed  any  celebrated  range  of  hills, 
one  naturally  calls  to  mind  the  journeys  which  one  may  have  made 
across  other  mountains,  and  the  comparative  interest  with  which  such 
routes  have  been  attended. 

I  have  never  crossed  either  Mount  Cenis  or  the  Simplon  :  I  cannot, 
therefore  speak  of  them.  The  most  celebrated  passes  with  which  I  am 
acquainted  are, — St.  Gotthard,  Mount  Albula,  the  pass  by  the  source  of 
the  Rhine,  the  Rhsctian  Alps,  the  Breuner,  the  limb  of  the  Pic  du  Midi, 
the  pass  of  the  Pyrenees  from  Perpignan  to  Catalonia,  from  Gavarnie 
by  the  Br^che  de  Roland  to  Arragon,  some  of  the  mountain  passes  of 
Norway,  the  Spanish  Sierras,  the  Caucasus,  the  northern  Elborz  between 
Meanah  and  Casvin,  and  the  stupendous  cotalls  in  the  south  of  Persia, 
which  I  have  just  described.  Now,  it  may  appear  singular  that  of  these 
the  lower  passages  should  be  the  finest ;  yet  so  it  is,  in  my  estimation. 
Mount  Albula  and  the  Br^he  de  Roland  are  certainly  lower  than  St* 


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600  A  JOURNEY  FROM  8HIRAZ 

Gotthard,  and  yet  their  featnree  are  more  ttrikiiig.  And  the  trulli  is, 
that  besides  the  causes  I  have  already  mentioned,  arising  from  diversity 
in  conformation  and  surface,  the  very  lowness  is  itself  the  chief  cause  cf 
superiority.  Nor  is  this  apparent  paradox  difficult  to  explain  s  for  where 
a  road  traverses  the  summit  of  a  mountain,  there  cannot  be  precipiees 
above ;  and  the  mere  fact  that  a  road  is  necessarily  led  over  the  highest 
part  of  the  range,  is  itself  a  proof  that  it  is  not  indented  by  those  de^ 
valleys,  clefts,  and  ravines,  which,  did  they  exist,  would  permit  the  route 
to  be  conducted  across  at  a  lower  elevation.  Where  a  road  traverses  the 
summit  of  a  mountain,  the  views  may  certainly  be  extensive ;  but  they 
must  greatly  yield  in  sublimity  to  thoee  which  are  presented  where  the 
road  conducts  the  traveller  through  the  heart  of  the  mountain,  among  its 
deep  recesses,  its  forests  and  cataracts. 

Looking  bock  and  upward  to  the  mountains  I  had  just  traversed,  the 
difierent  passes  I  have  just  enimierated,  were  successively  recalled  to  my 
mind ;  1  again  contemplated,  as  it  were,  the  rocky  grrandeur  and  desola- 
tion of  Mount  Albula  and  the  Northern  Elborz ;  the  icy  horrors  of  the 
Brdche  de  Roland ;  the  picturesque  beauties  of  the  Rhintian  Alps ;  the 
wide  pastorea  of  the  Pic  du  Midi,  with  its  fields  of  purple  iris;  the 
gloomy  sublimity  of  the  pine-clad  mountains  of  Scandinavia  and  the  in- 
hospitable Caucasus ;  the  arid  desert,  and  far-up  solitudes  of  the  Sierra 
Morena ;  and  the  rich  variegated  carpet  thai  overspreads  the  passes  of 
the  western  Pyrenees.  More  sublime  than  some  of  these,  more  beauts 
ful  than  others,  the  mountain-passes  between  Shiras  and  the  Persian 
Gulf,  have  their  own  peculiar  charms ;  they  could  easily  bear  a  compa- 
rison with  the  western  Pyrenees,  and  hold  an  equals  and  even  superior, 
place  m  my  memory  with  the  passes  of  Switierknd. 

On  the  Srd  of  April,  after  a  short  ride  over  same  uneven  ground,  we 
reached  the  northern  extremity  of  the  plain  of  Bushire,  when,  leaving  our 
mules  and  baggage  to  follow  us,  we  pushed  on  rapidly,  intending  to  arrive 
at  Bushire  early  in  the  day.  The  weather  was  almost  broiling ;  indeed, 
I  had  never  hitherto  felt  such  heat  during  the  same  season  of  the  year. 

We  had  arrived  within  four  iursuks  of  our  journey's  end,  when  we 
perceived  before  us  a  very  large  encampment,  some  of  the  tents  forming 
which,  were  of  the  most  gorgeous  ^pearance.  At  this  moment,  several 
horsemen  came  up  and  infoimed  us  that  the  Prince-Governor  of  Bushire 
had  sent  them  to  us  with  an  invitation.  We  accordingly  accompanied 
the  messengers  to  the  royal  tent,  where  we  were  most  graciously 
received  by  the  prince,  who  was  seated  on  some  magnificent  imshions  of 
cachemere.  He  was  a  very  handsome,  fine-looking  young  man,  of  about 
two-and*twenty  years  o^  age,  and  was  the  eldest  son,  by  his  chief  wife, 
of  Hussein  Meerza,  Farmoon  Farraah  of  Shiraz,  and  son  of  Path  Ali, 
King  of  Persia.  His  royal  highness  had  been  for  several  days  on  a 
hunting  expedition,  and  was  about  to  proceed  on  the  following  morning 
to  Bushire.  He  invited  us  to  stay  that  night  with  him,  and  to  accom- 
pany him  afterwards  on  his  return  homewards,  informing  us  at  the  same 
time  that  we  should  enjoy  some  excellent  gazdle-hunting  and  hawking 
on  the  way.  Although  we  were  much  f&tigued  with  our  long  and  te- 
dious journey  from  Shirax,  we  accepted  of  the  invitation,  and  the  more 
willingly,  as  we  were  aware  that  it  would  afford  us  an  opportunity  of 
witnessing  a  royal  eastern  hunt  in  all  its  splendour.  Hussein  Ali  Meersa, 
for  that  was  the  name  of  the  prince,  entertained  us  during  the  remain- 
der of  the  day  most  hoi^itably,  and  did  us  the  honour  of  personally 


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TO  THE    PERSIAN    GULF.  601 

conducting  us  over  his  bunting  and  hawking  establishment,  which  con- 
sisted of  aboye  a  hundred  fine  Arab  horses,  eighty-four  greyhounds,  and 
ninety-three  hawks,  besides  a  quantity  of  yahoos  (hacks),  of  an  inferior 
quality,  for  the  use  of  the  camp-followers.  In  the  evening  he  ordered 
out  his  body-guard  to  practise  at  a  mark,  which  consisted  of  a  large  he- 
goat  placed  at  three  hundred  and  fiAy  yards  distance  from  the  marks- 
men, who  fired  with  huge,  unwieldy  matchlocks,  about  twelve  feet  in 
length,  and  so  heavy  that  they  could  not  be  used  without  a  rest.  The 
men  shot  tolerably  well,  several  balls  striking  the  ground  close  to  the 
goat  Two  tofinckchis  hit  the  stake  to  which  the  animal  was  tied,  which 
pleased  the  prince  so  much  that  he  immediately  ordered  a  kalaat  (dress 
of  honour)  to  be  given  to  each.  Having  returned  with  us  to  his  tent, 
he  directed  a  bottle  to  be  placed  at  a  hundred  paces  distant  at  which  he 
fired  about  twenty  shots ;  he  did  not,  however,  prove  himself  a  very 
good  marksman,  or  rather  the  rifle  he  used  was  so  very  unwieldy,  that 
he  did  not  go  near  the  mark.  The  prince,  although  evidently  some- 
what annoyed  at  the  ill-success  of  his  attempts,  laughed  at  his  awk- 
wardness, as  he  termed  it,  and  asked  us  to  try  our  skill.  Upon  which 
having  sent  for  one  of  my  rifles,  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  break  three 
bottles  in  as  many  shots ;  but,  in  order  that  his  royal  highness  should 
not  be  vexed  at  being  beaten  by  me,  I  hinted  to  him  that  his  want  of 
success  was  owing  to  the  hardness  of  his  gun-locks,  and  proposed  that 
he  should  make  a  trial  of  my  rifle.  Whether  it  was  the  result  of  acci- 
dent, or  that  he  was  really  a  better  shot  than  I  gave  him  credit  for,  he 
hit  the  mark  at  the  third  shot,  and  appeared  so  delighted  with  the  gun, 
that  I  could  not  help  making  use  of  the  sentence,  *'  It  is  not  mine,  but 
yours."  In  return  for  this  present,  Hussein  AH  Meerza  sent  me  after- 
wards, a  beautiful  Nedjee  Arab,  perfectly  white,  and  which,  I  believe, 
became  in  the  following  year  one  of  the  chief  favourites  of  the  Bombay 
turf,  to  which  city  it  was  taken  by  an  Arab  horsedealer,  to  whom  I  sold 
the  animal  on  my  quitting  Persia, 

Around  the  royal  tent  were  pitched  several  others,  belonging  to  the 
chief  khans  and  meerzas  of  the  province.  The  assemblage  of  Arabs 
and  Persians,  composuig  the  retinue,  was  very  numerous,  and  presented 
more  the  appearance  of  an  army  on  a  campaign,  than  that  of  a  hunting- 
party.  A  traveller  in  the  East  can,  indeed,  easily  understand  how 
Nimrod  of  old,  **  who  was  a  mighty  hunter  before  the  Lord,*'  became  a 
powerful  monarch.  The  most  warlike  Persian  kings  have  always  been 
great  hunters.  The  illustrious  eunuch,  Aga  Mahomed,  uncle  and  pre- 
decessor to  Path  Ali,  was  the  best  horseman  and  most  expert  marksman 
of  his  day,  as  well  as  being  the  best  general,  the  most  valiant  warrior, 
and  the  ablest  statesman. 

After  sunset  the  prmce  sent  for  his  musicians,  who  played  and  sang 
before  us  for  several  hours.  One  of  their  songs  was  composed  in 
honour  of  Mr.  Littlejohn,  general  of  the  forces  at  Shiraz,  and  was  re- 
plete with  praises  of  his  great  martial  deeds  and  military  skill.  The 
performers,  indeed,  with  all  the  licence  of  Persian  poetry,  went  so  far 
as  to  say,  <*  that  Zaul  and  Rustum  were  great  heroes,  the  very  fathers 
of  heroes,  but  that  their  exploits  were  as  dirt  compared  to  those  of  the 
brave,  lion-hearted,  eagle-eyed  Faringee,  whose  voice  was  as  the  winds 
of  Heaven,  whose  appearance  was  that  of  Eusoff,  whose  limbs  were  as 
graceful  as  those  of  an  antelope,  whose  strength  was  as  that  of  an 
elephant,  and  whose  agility  was  that  of  a  Goorkhur." 

VOL.  XXIII.  Y  T 


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602  A    JOURNEY    FROM    SHIRAZ 

On  the  following  morning  we  started  before  daylight  for  Bushire,  in 
company  with  the  prince.  Horsemen  had  been  previously  sent  forward 
in  different  directions  to  look  out  for  the  haunts  of  the  gazelles,  and 
after  we  had  proceeded  for  about  a  fursok,  news  was  brought  that  seve- 
ral of  those  animals  were  close  at  hand.  The  arrangements  for  the 
chase  were  now  so  managed,  that  we  soon  surrounded  ihe  destined  prey 
by  a  very  large  circle.  The  signal  was  then  given,  hawks  were  cast, 
and  dogs  loosed,  and  away  we  ^dloped  as  fast  as  our  horses  could  carry 
us.  The  manner  in  which  the  hawks  attack  the  antelope  is  most  re- 
markable, for  immediately  on  the  bird  being  let  free  it  singles  out  a  deer, 
and  having  overtaken  it,  perches  upon  its  head  and  flaps  its  wings  over 
the  eyes  of  the  animal,  until  it  is  so  blinded  and  baffled  in  its  move- 
ments, that  the  dogs  can  come  up  and  pull  it  down.  In  this  manner 
about  a  dozen  gazelles  were  killed,  when,  the  rifle  being  brought  into 
play,  the  hunt  assumed  a  different  aspect,  and  as  the  hunters  were  too 
much  engrossed  in  the  sport  to  take  heed  of  where  their  shots  might 
strike,  in  case  of  their  missing  the  gazelles  they  fired  at,  the  amusement 
was  not  unattended  with  danger.  In  the  present  case,  however,  all  went 
off,  for  some  time,  without  any  further  accident  than  the  wounding  of 
several  horses  and  dogs,  when  an  adventure  occurred  of  which  I  was 
an  eye-witness,  and  which,  but  for  the  promptitude  of  Oriental  justice, 
might  have  been  for  ever  enveloped  in  mystery.  The  episode  pf  this 
day's  hunt  was  as  follows  : — 

I  was  lagging  somewhat  behind,  after  having  assisted  in  killing  a 
gazelle  which  had  been  pulled  down  close  to  me  by  a  couple  of  grey- 
hounds, when  suddenly  a  horseman  at  my  side  levelled  his  g^n,  seem- 
ingly, at  another  antelope  which  was  bounding  along  at  some  distance, 
and  fired ;  the  ball,  however,  did  not  strike  the  deer,  but  entering  the 
breast  of  an  Arab  connderahly  to  the  right  of  the  apparent  ma/rh^  killed 
him  dead  on  the  spot.  As  may  be  imagined  a  general  hue  and  cry 
arose,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  greater  portion  of  the  hunters  had 
crowded  to  where  the  corpse  lay,  weltering  in  its  warm  blood.  '*  How 
did  it  happen  r"  "  Who  killed  him  T  «  Poor  Abdallah  I  ill  luck  to 
the  careless  hand  that  pulled  the  trigger  1*'  ^'  His  father's  grave  is  de- 
filed, and  he  himself  shall  be  choked  with  the  filth  of  all  uncleanness." 
'*  What  an  ass  must  he  be,  who  knows  not  a  man  from  a  deer.**  Such 
were  the  exclamations  that  were  uttered  on  all  sides ;  as  for  the  man, 
whose  gun  had  sped  the  fatal  ball,  he  sat  motionless  upon  his  horse,  his 
face  deadly  pale,  and  his  teeth  clenched  firmly  together,  while  his  eyes 
seemed  immovably  fixed  upon  the  body  of  him  he  had  just  slain.  I 
know  not  how  it  was,  but  a  suspicion  rose  in  my  mind  that  the  deed  had 
not  been  entirely  accidental,  and  the  more  I  reflected,  the  more  that 
idea  became  confirmed ;  for  I  remembered  that  when  the  shot  was  fired, 
the  gazelle  and  the  man  who  had  been  slain  were  by  no  means  in  the 
same  line.  It  appeared,  moreover,  that  these  suspicions  were  not  con- 
fined to  myself  alone,  for  in  a  few  minutes  a  horseman  rode  franticly 
up)  exclaiming,  ''My  son  I  my  son  !  where  is  he?"  This  last  person 
was,  as  his  words  implied,  the  father  of  the  dead  Arab.  I  had  never 
beheld  a  countenance  so  full  of  agony  as  that  of  the  old  man,  as  he 
gazed  upon  the  corpse ;  a  moment  afterwards,  however,  it  became  con- 
vulsed with  rage,  for  some  one  had  whispered  in  his  ear  the  name  of 
the  man  by  whose  hand  his  son  had  fallen.  As  if  animated  by  all  the 
vigour  of  youth,  he  spurred  his  horse  violently,  and  at  the  same  time 


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TO    THE    PERSlAlf  GULF.  603 

drawing  his  ^word,  he  rashed  up  to  the  slayer  of  his  son  and  aimed  a 
blow,  at  his  head,  which  the  other  narrowly  ayoided.  Before  there  was 
time  to  renew  the  blow,  the  bystanders  interfered,  and  attempted  to 
calm  the  old  man's  rage,  by  observing  that  what  had  occurred  was  the 
effect  of  accident.  **  An  accident,**  cried  the  Arab  ;  '^  it  was  never  an 
accident  that  turned  the  muzzle  of  the  assassin's  gun  towards  my  poor 
boy's  heart ;  had  any  other  but  Ali  Acmah  fired  the  shot,  I  might  have 
believed  it  was  accident ;  but  Ali  Acmah  has  long  desired  the  blood  of 
his  victim  ;  I  am  ready  to  swear  on  the  koran.that  the  murder  was  pre- 
meditated. But  why  do  you  hold  me  ?  let  me  strike  at  the  foul  heart 
of  the  wretch  I  let  me  send  his  soul  to  hell  ?** 

It  was  in  vain  that  his  friends  essayed  to  pacify  the  old  man ;  in  vain 
they  attempted  to  hold  him  back,  his  struggles  were  so  violent,  and  the 
horse  he  bestrode  so  spirited,  that  he  would  soon  have  disengaged  him- 
self from  their  hold,  had  not  the  prince  rode  up.  His  presence  caused  a 
momentary  silence,  which  was,  however,  itaimediately  broken  by  the  old 
Arab,  who,  darting  from  his  horse,  threw  himself  upon  his  knees  before 
Hussein  Ali  Meerza,  and  having  loudly  aocmsed  Ali  Acmah  of  wilfully 
murdering  his  son,  claimed  the  right  of  revenging  the  blood,  as  being 
the  nearest  relative  to  the  fallen  man.  The  prince  having  dismounted, 
proceeded  to  seat  himself  upon  a  nummud,  which  was  spread  for  him  on 
the  gpround,  and  bade  both  accused  and  accuser  to  be  brought  before 
him.  The  latter  soon  told  his  tale,  which  was,  '*  That  Ali  Acmah  and 
his  victim  had  been  at  bitter  enmity  with  each  other  for  some  time,  and 
that  the  former  had  been  more  than  once  heard  to  say,  that  he  longed 
for  young  Abdullah's  blood ;  that,  in  fact,  this  was  not  the  first  attempt 
be  had  made  at  assassination,  for  a  few  months  before  Abdullah  had 
been  shot  at  while  sitting  under  a  date  tree,  in  the  vicinity  of  Bushire, 
and  it  was  strongly  suspected  that  Ali  Acmah  bad  fired  the  ball,  which 
had  then  lodged  in  the  turban  of  the  young  man." 

To  this  accusation  Ali  Acmah  replied,  that  he  had  never  fblt  any 
hatred  towards  Abdullah ;  that  at  for  the  shot  fired  in  the  date  grov^, 
he  wished  that  his  beard  might  be  plucked  from  its  roots,  if  he  knew 
from  whom  it  came.  ^  It  was  an  unlucky  fate,"  he  continued,  <*  that 
caused  the  ball  from  my  rifle  to  enter  the  body  of  the  young  man,  for  I 
had  auned  at  a  gazelle ;  as  Allah  is  Allah,  and  Mahomed  is  his  prophet, 
I  speak  no  lies.  I  am  ready  to  pay  the  price  of  blood,  it  is  due  from 
me,  for  I  have  slain  a  man,  although  unint^tionany." 

**  You  lie,  vile  wretdi !  foul  swine  I  burnt  ^her  !  goromsog  !"  cried 
the  old  Arab.  **  You  are  an  assassin,  you  wished  to  kill  my  son.  O 
most  noble  prince,  issue  of  the  king  of  kings,  give  me  the  life  of  this 
man ; — ^let  me  slay  him  with  mine  own  hand  I  Does  he  think  that 
blood-money  can  ever  repay  me  for  the  loss  of  my  child  ?  Oh,  no ! — 
may  the  ashes  of  my  ancestors  be  defiled,  if  I  accept  of  any  ransom  ! 
Let  me  have  blood  for  blood,  vengeance  for  vengeance." 

An  investigation  of  some  length  now  ensued :  witnesses  were  called ; 
the  mutual  positions  of  the  dead  man,  Ali  Acmah,  and  the  gazelle,  at  the 
moment  of  the  shot  being  fired^  were  examined  into ;  and  at  length  it  be- 
came clear  to  every  one  present  that  the  fatal  event  was  the  result  of  no 
accident,  but  of  a  premeditated  vengreance.  The  prince  had  now  no 
second  course  to  pursue ;  and  having  asked  the  bereaved  father  whether 
he  was  inclined  to  accept  of  the  price  of  blood,  the  old  man  returned  in 
a  firm  and  solemn  voice : 

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604      A  JOURNEY    FROM  SHIRAZ   TO   THE   PERSIAN   GULF. 

"  In  no  other  manner  but  by  the  death  of  the  assassin." 

'*  Take^  then,  your  due,**  said  Hussein  Ali  Meerza.  '*  I  am  here  to 
administer  equaJ  justice  to  Persians  and  to  Arabs,  and  can  refuse  it  to 
none."^ 

On  hearing  tliese  words,  the  murderer  threw  himself  upon  his  knees, 
and  having  confessed  his  guilt,  intreated  for  mercy  in  the  most  suppliant 
terms,  calling  Allah  to  witness  that  he  had  received  the  grossest  provo* 
cation  from  him  he  had  slain.  It  was,  however,  in  vain  that  he  spoke. 
There  was  one  man  only  present  who  had  power  to  save  his  life,  and 
that  man  was  the  father  of  Abdullak  Coldly  drawing  forth  his  sabre^ 
the  old  Arab  advanced  towards  the  kneeling  criminal,  and  exclaiming — 
'<  O  Abdullah  !  thus  do  I  revenge  thy  blood  1"  with  one  powerful  blow, 
he  severed  the  head  of  Ali  Acmah  from  his  body* 

I  had  before  this  frequently  been  witness  to  the  awful  speediness  of 
Oriental  justice,  but  never  had  I  beheld  a  scene  more  imposing  than  the 
one  which  bad  just  taken  place ;  for  in  the  space  of  one  short  half-hour 
the  murder  had  been  committed,  the  accusation  made,  the  witnesses  ex- 
amined, and  the  criminal  condemned  and  executed.  It  must  be  observed 
that  justice  was  meted  out  in  this  instance  most  impartially ;  for  had  not 
the  crime  been  clearly  proved,  the  murderer  would  have  been  acquitted. 
He  would  still,  however,  have  been  exposed  to  the  vengeance  of  the  dead 
man's  family,  who  would  have  sought  his  life  by  every  possible  means. 

The  fatal  event  which  had  occurred  having  naturally  put  a  sudden 
stop  to  the  chase,  the  retinue  of  the  prince  collected  together  in  good 
order,  and  we  proceeded  in  the  direction  of  Bushire,  where  we  arrived 
about  noon.  At  the  entrance  of  the  town  we  took  leave  of  Hussein  Ali 
Meerza,  and  proceeded  to  the  Factory,*  where  we  were  most  hospitably 
received  by  Mr.  Blane,  the  English  resident  and  political  agent. 

A  few  days  after  our  arrival  at  Bushire,  a  revolution  took  place,  and, 
after  some  bloodshed,  Hussein  Ali  Meerza  was  deposed,  and  me  govern- 
ment usurped  by  one  Djumal  Khan,  an  Arab.  After  having  been  de- 
tained prisoner  for  a  short  time,  the  prince  was  allowed  to  depart  with 
his  harem  for  Shiraz. 

Djumal  Khan  did  not  long  enjoy  his  usurped  power ;  for  a  few  weeks 
after  he  had  assumed  the  reins  of  government,  he  was  shot  while  feast- 
ing in  a  date-grove  about  a  mile  from  the  town,  the  day  before  the  arri- 
val of  Timoor  Meerza,  second  brother  to  Hussein  Ali,  with  an  army 
from  Shiraz.  Aided  by  this  (for  him)  fortunate  occurrence,  Timoor 
Meerza  soon  put  down  the  rebellion,  and  was  in  consequence  appointed 
governor  by  the  Farmoon  Farmah,  which  situation  he  held  until  the 
death  of  Fath-Ali  Shah,  when,  having  been  engaged  with  his  fatherf 
and  brothers  in  unsuccessfully  disputing  the  crown  with  Mohammed 
Shah,  the  present  monarch,  he  was  obliged  to  fly  from  Persia,  when  he 
proceeded  to  England  in  company  with  Hussein  Ali  Meerza  and  an- 
other of  his  brothers. 

Those  three  Persian  princes  are  now  residing  at  Bagdad,  and  are  in 
receipt  of  a  pension  from  the  English  government. 

*  The  English  residence  is  so  called. 

f  The  right  of  Uassein  Meerza,  Farmoon  Farmah  of  Shiraz,  to  the  crown  of 
Persia^  was  not  altc^gether  visionary,  for  he  was  bom  (of  a  different  mother)  on  the 
same  day  as  the  late  Abbas  Meerza,  father  of  Mohamed  the  present  Shah.  Had 
not  the  claim  of  Mohamed  been  supported  by  the  English  and  Russian  govern- 
ments, there  is  every  reason  to  suppose  that  Hussein  would  have  been  successful, 
as  he  possessed  a  very  well-disciplined  army,  commanded  by  3Ir.  Littlejohn,  a 
most  talented  British  officer. 


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606 


SHE  'S  GONE  TO  BATH. 

BT   OBEBNSLSEVSS. 

Bbttt  opened  the  door. 

''  Please^  ma'am^  she 's  gone  to  Bath. 

The  tea-table  rose  en  masse. 

**  Gone  to  Bath  !"  echoed  the  party,  amazed,  and  for  three  mortal 
seconds  the  tea-table  was  dumb.  Nature  could  stand  it  no  longer; 
the  prisoned  members  broke  loose,  and  the  air  was  rent  with  excla- 
mations and  apostrophes. 

''  Well !"  ''There !"  ''  Now !"  "  Could  you  !" 

''  I  always  thought  it !  I  always  said  it !  I  always  knew  it !"  said 
a  little  sharp*featured  woman,  striking  the  table  forcibly  at  each  an- 
nouncement. 

''  Hush  !"  cried  the  lady  of  the  house  ;  but  she  cried  in  vain.  All 
spoke;  no  one  listened  —  certainly  not  the  best  way  to  gratify 
curiosity,  or  gain  information.  The  stronger  minds  seemed  sua- 
denly  struck  with  this  conviction.  "  Hush  !"  cried  they,  and  they 
made  signs,  nodded,  opened  their  mouths,  and  pointed  to  Betty. 
The  pantomime  succeeded ;  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  round 
red  face  ;  all  tongues  attacked  its  owner. 

''  Are  you  sure  ?  "  "  Did  you  listen  ?  "  "  Can  she  be  trusted  ?  " 
"  Looks  stupid  I"    «  And,  may  be,  fibs  I" 

Betty  hacf  not  her  rival  in  S»  •  *  *  •  *.  She  was  housemaid,  parlour- 
maid, laundry-maid,  lady's-maid  rolled  up  in  one :  the  best  cook 
and  the  kindest  nurse  in  the  parish,  too.  Betty  was  a  treasure ; 
Betty  was  a  favourite:  Betty  was  aware  of  it,  and — Betty  was 
saucy.  Her  mistress,  old,  weak,  and  a  little  fidgety,  would  have 
doubled  her  wages  rather  than  lose  her. 

Betty  heard  the  "impident^  observations,"  twirled  the  door- 
handle, and  gazed  stolidly  at  the  bald  mandarin  on  the  manteU 
shelf. 

"  You  don't  speak,  woman,"  exclaimed  the  vivacious  lady  who 
had  so  oracularly  declared  her  intelligence. 

'*  I  ain't  no  woman  at  all,  Mrs.  Wiper,"  said  Betty,  exploding. 
"  I  ain't  so  stoopid  as  some  folks  think  ;  I  never  tells  no  lies ;  and, 
thank  my  gianny  as  larnt  me  better,  /  knows  it  ain't  genteel  to  talk 
when  somebody  else  is  speakinV 

"  What 's  that  she  says  ?" 

"  Did  you  ever  !" 

"  Such  a  very  extraordinary  licence  of  speech !" 

''Hold  your  tongue,  Betty,"  prayed  Mrs.  Willetts ;  "it's  only 
her  way ;  and,  to  be  sure,  I  never  knew  her  to  make  a  mistake. 
Who  did  you  see,  Betty  ?" 

"The  old  lady." 

"Mrs.  Maunder?" 

*'  There  ain't  no  other  old  lady  at  Helen  Cottage  as  I  know  on." 

"  Not  now,  certainly,  Betty,"  interposed  her  mistress ;  "  but,  re- 
member that  common  courtesy " 

"  I  never  was  no  hand  at  curtseyin',"  muttered  Betty,  dropping 
an  awkward  bob  ;  "  Granny  took  a  world  o'  pains  a  leamin'  me,  but 
I  can't  do  no  better." 


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606  she's  gone  to  bath. 

*'  You  may  withdraw,  Betty/'  said  her  mistreM,  mildly  ;  <'  when 
I  ring,  bring  up  the  kettle." 

Betty  was  sone  off  *'  without  leave.'* 

''  An  oddish  temper,  but  so  faithful  and  trustworthy/'  remarked 
old  Mrs.  Willetts;  ''and  then  she  can't  bear,  poor  thing!  to  be 
checked  by  any  one  but  myself."  She  glanced  rather  resentfully  at 
Mrs.  Viper. 

"  Check  her,  my  dear  Mrs.  W. !  I  caught  your  look,  and  I  call 
these  ladies  to  witness  I  only  dubbed  her  woman ;  and,  upon  my 
word,  under  our  present  excitement,  I  cannot  see  any  great  narm  in 
thephrase.    But  who 's that ? " 

There  was  an  impatient  knock  at  the  street  door :  two  ladies  ran 
to  the  window  and  peeped  over  the  blinds* 

*'  Miss  Cramshaw  !"  cried  they,  in  ecstasy. 

The  door  was  opened.    Miss  Cramshaw  rushed  into  the  room. 

''  Have  you  heard  it  ?"  gasped  she.     The  tea-table  sprung  up. 

"  Yes ! — ^no  1 — what?"  cried  the  members. 

«  Miss  Danvers !" 

"  Good  heavens !  to  be  sure ; — ^have^ov  f" 

"  This  very  moment." 

''Gone  to  Bath!" 

"To  Bath?" 

"So  artful!" 

"So  sly!" 

"So  close!" 

'•  So  clandestine !" 

"  Gone  to  Bath  ! — and  I  met  her  yesterday,  asked  her  how  she 
did,  and  she  never  hinted  it!"  Miss  Cramshaw  spread  out  her 
hands,  then  her  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  herself  into  a  chair. 

"  Very  surprising  !"  quavered  Mrs.  Willetts,  "  Betty  went  to  the 
cottage  this  aflernoon  and  saw  old  Mrs.  Maunder.  '  Where 's  Miss 
Danvers  ?'  said  Betty.     '  Gone  to  Bath'  said  the  old-ladjr." 

"  The  very  thing  that  she  told  me.  I  saw  her  watering  her  gera- 
niums as  I  passed  by  ;  '  Where 's  your  niece  ?'  said  I.  '  Gone  to 
Bath/  stammered  she.  '  Gone  to  Bath !'  said  I ;  '  bless  me !  how 
sudden  !' — '  Ay,'  said  the  old  dame.  And  she  bent  her  head  aside, 
and  put  her  hand  up  to  her  ear ; — a  trick  only ;  '  how  sudden/  said 
I.  '  Lor',  is  it  ?'  mumbled  the  old  lady ;  '  well,  I  thought  it  was 
rather  chilly.'  Stuff!  said  I,  but  I  saw  at  a  glance  the  thing  was 
mum !  for  the  old  lady  went  into  the  cottage  and  shut  the  door. 
Let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  plain  enough." 

Miss  Cramshaw  squinted  and  looked  wise. 

"  Ah  !"  sighed  Mrs.  Spoonbill,  a  matron  whose  daughter  hung  on 
hand,  "this  is  a  warning  for  George  Benson:  he  snail  know  it, 
please  God.  My  Mary  Anne  never  could  bear  that  Miss  Danvers. 
'Mamma/  says  she,  'she's  so  artful,  and  such  a  flirt!'  If  you'd 
seen,  ladies,  how  the  hussy  angles  for  George — I  'm  sure  it 's  shame- 
ful!" 

"  /  always  foresaw  how  it  would  end,"  cried  Mrs.  Viper,  whose 
volubility  bore  down  all  before  her;  "such  extravagance, — such 
folly — such  absolute  disregard  of — I  may  almost  say  common  ho- 
nesty. First,  to  rent  an  elegant  little  cottage  fit  only  for  gentle- 
folks." 

Old  Mrs.  Willetts  shook  her  head  and  took  snuff.  '*  Very  impru- 
dent !"  chorussed  the  ladies. 


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she's  gone  to  bath.  607 

'  «<  Imprudent  I-i-DNPRiNClFun)!^  retorted  the  censor;  ''had  she 
money  m  hand — a  husband — a  shop— -or  means  to  pay  for  it  ?  No  f 
What  is  she?  a  poor  officer's  daughter.  What  is  her  aunt? — a 
purser's  widow.  They  've  nothing  between  them,— -nothing  at  all 
to  live  on." 

'*  Mrs.  Maunder  has  a  pension/'  ventured  a  good-natured  young 
lady,  hitherto  silent. 

*'  A  pension — fiddlestick  !"  cried  Mrs.  Viper,  snapping  her  fingers, 
**  I  wouldn't  give  that  for  it :  Viper  gets  more  in  fees  in  a  summer* 
month.  I  wonder  they  're  not  ashamed  to  go  on  as  they  do !  Rent 
a  beautiful  house,  buy  furniture,  carpets,  and  chairs,  and  tables,  and 
mirrors.  I  never  heard  of  such  infamous  proceedings."  The  lady's 
rapid  enunciation  exhausted  her  breath. 

''  Possibly  they  hope  to  increase  their  income  by  boarders,"  sug- 
gested the  good-natured  young  lady. 

"  Do  they.  Miss  Vernon,— hum !  And  what  right  have  strangers 
to  come  to  this  favourite  watering-place  and  rob  the  old  inhabitants 
of  their  profits  and  the  preference  due  to  them  ?  I  've  been  unlet 
half  the  season,  so  has  Mrs.  Swasher,— and  poor  Miss  Agrimony." 

"  If  she 's  gone  to  Bath,  it 's  to  be  hoped  she  'U  stay,"  said  Mrs. 
Spoonbill. 

" Gone  to  Bath,"  sneered  Mrs.  Viper  ;  "ah  I  that 's  the  end  of  it, 
— ^that's  the  wind  up  and  finale.  A  fortnight  aj|ro,  had  in  a  new 
sofa  covered  with  green  velvet,  carved  d  la  renaissance, — last  week 
I  saw  a  large  chimney  glass  go  up  to  the  cottage,  neat,  gold  and 
burnished.  Lord  knows  fvhcU  price :  and  no  later  than  Monday,  a 
dozen  fashionable  chairs,  that  I  'm  sure  Viper  couldn't  afford  me, 
and  the  influenxa  raging.  /  knew  how  it  would  end ;  and  as  to 
George  Benson—" 

"  He  '8  a  fool,  that 's  all,"  snarled  Mrs.  Spoonbill. 

"  It 's  a  sad  thing,"  sighed  Mrs.  Willetts,  tapping  her  snuff-box. 

"  Sad  !  it 's  shocking.  Philips  sent  in  his  bill  three  months  ago ; 
the  baker  received  a  promise  instead  of  payment;  and  as  to  Bull 
the  butcher,  I  pity  the  man  1  he 's  a  sick  wife  and  eleven  children." 

"  Is  Miss  Danvers  in  his  debt  ?"  asked  the  good-natured  young 
lady  ;  "  I  was  told  she  paid  ready  money." 

'*  Ready  money,"  hissed  Mrs.  Viper ;  "  I  don't  think  much  of  that 
coin  passes  into  her  hands,  and  of  course  it  would  be  hard  to  expect 
it  to  pass  out.  Why,  she 's  not  let  her  apartments  or  had  a  boarder, 
to  my  certain  knowledge,  these  six  months." 

"  Six  months !"  said  the  good-natured  young  lady ;  "  who  was 
the  Mrs.  Mountjoy  that  went  away  last  week,  after  staying  the 
summer  ?" 

"  A  friend,  I  believe ;  one  that  paid  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing, 
as  friends  mostly  do.  George  Benson  was  always  going  in  and  out 
of  the  house  then  ;  one  would  have  thought  he  was  paying  court  to 
the  old  lady  instead  of  the  young  one." 

"  But  who  was  she  ?  she  had  the  manners  and  appearance  of  a 
gentlewoman." 

"  Nobody  knows  and  nobody  cares,  I  dare  say,"  cried  Mrs.  Viper. 
"  She  was  a  very  unpleasant,  sharp,  satirical  old  woman,  I  'm  sure. 
Visited  nobody — spoke  to  nobody ;  and  always  eyed  them  as  if  they 
were  dirt." 

"  She  took  the  wall  of  me  twice,"  said  Mrs.  Spoonbill :  "  and  was 


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608  she's  gone  to  bath. 

very  high  and  mighty,  when  my  Mary  Ann  looked  over  her  shoul- 
der as  she  was  reading  on  the  sands/' 

"  I  can't  say  but  that  I  liked  the  look  of  the  old  lady ;  a  little 
stately  perhaps ;  but  I  liked  her  the  better  for  that^"  observed  Mrs. 
Willetts,  in  a  quiet  tone. 

**  I  remember  meeting  her  near  the  Castle^  leaning  on  George 
Benson's  arm,"  said  Miss  Vernon ;  **  she  had  an  ebony  crutch-stick 
in  her  hand,  and  as  she  passed,  it  caught  in  my  skirt  and  tore  the 
flounce ;  the  old  lady  stopped  and  sp^e  to  me,  apologising  for  the 
accident,  and  her  voice,  though  a  little  tremulous  with  age,  was  so 
sweet,  her  regard  so  kind,  and  her  manner  so  gracious,  that  I  have 
thought  of  them  ever  since." 

Mrs.  Viper  laughed  derisively  :  Mrs.  Spoonbill  imitated  her. 

**  Very  romantic.  Miss  Vernon,"  said  the  former ;  "  quite  an  in- 
cident and  a  picture.  Perhaps  the  old  lady  happened  to  know  that 
you  're  an  only  child,  and  has  a  son  she  wishes  to  settle." 

*'  No,  no,  Mary,"  cried  Mrs.  Willetts,  shaking  her  head ;  ♦*  Mary 
will  not  forget  my  poor  Dick,  though  he 's  far  away.  God  bless 
him !" 

^  Mary  Vernon  blushed,  but  cast  her  young  eves  so  assuringly,  yet 
timidly  on  the  speaker,  tiiat  all  fear  of  a  rivS  for  "  poor  Dick  "  was 
laid  at  rest 

^  That  Miss  Danvers  could  not  meet  her  engagements,  and  was  fur- 
tively gone  off  to  Bath  in  the  hope  of  evading  her  creditors,  was 
carried  by  a  majority.  What  the  landlord  would  do — what  the 
tradesmen  would  do,  and  what  Qoody  Maunder  would  do,  were 
about  to  be  canvassed,  when  the  street  bell  rang. 

«  That's  the  butcher  with  a  sweetbread,"  said  Mrs.  Willetts ;  "  I 
saw  him  pass  the  window." 

"  Have  him  in,"  cried  Mrs.  Viper,  *'it  would  be  only  Christian  to 
warn  him." 

"  Bull  was  shewn  in,  and,  making  his  best  bow,  stood  dose  to  the 
door,  cap. in-hand. 

**  We  wished  to  see  you.  Bull,"  began  Mrs.  Viper,  very  readily. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  the  butcher. 

•'We  wish  you  well.  Bull."  Bull  "made  a  leg."  "And,  from 
a  pure  feeling  of  charity  tell  you  that  Miss  Danvers  is  gone  to  Bath," 

"  Gone  to  Bath,  is  she,  ma'am  ;  Lord  love  her  pretty  face  !  she 's 
a  sweet  young  lady,"  wheezed  Bull,  with  a  ray  of  animation  in  his 
huge  ox-eye.     There  was  some  surprise. 

*' Do  you  understand.  Bull?  she's  oonb  to  Bath,"  said  Mrs. 
Viper,  laying  extraordinary  emphasis  on  the  words. 

"  To  Bath — mind  to  Bath/'  chorussed  the  rest  of  the  company, 
always  excepting  the  good-natured  young  lady. 

"  To  drink  Uie  waters  ?'*  said  stupid  Bull ;  "much  good  may  it 
do  her,  ma'am  ;  she 's  as  fair  spoken  a  young  lady  as  ever  I  had  to 
deal  with." 

"  Soft  words  butter  no  parsnips,"  cried  Mrs.  Spoonbill,  forgetting 
her  gentility  of  speech.     •*  My  Mary  Ann  hates  palaver." 

"Allow  me  to  speak,  Mrs.  Spoonbill,  if  you  please,"  said  Mrs. 
Viper,  with  dignity.  "  Fair  speaking  is  one  thing,  Bull,  but  fair 
dealing 's  ~  another.  You  're  a  man  saddled  with  a  sick  wife  and 
eleven  children,  all  hearty  four-meals-a-day  boys,  I  believe  ?" 

"  Just  so,  ma*am,"  sighed  the  puzzled  butcher. 


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she's  gone  to  bath,  609 

"  You  ought  to  know  your  duty." 

''  I  humbly  hope  I  do,  ma'am/'  cried  Bull,  still  more  perplexed  ; 
*'  I  fear  God  and  honour  the  queen  ;  damn  the  French,  and  go  to 
church  of  a  Sunday ;  pay  tithes  and  taxes,  send  the  young  'uns  to 
school,  keep  a  nuss  to  wait  on  my  missis,  and  never  backbite  no- 
body." 

''  Bless  m^ !  how  intensely  stupid  you  are.  Bull,"  screamed  Mrs. 
Viper.     "  Miss  Danvers,  I  tell  you,  is  oonb  to  Bath." 

''  What's  that  to  me,  ma'am  ?"  said  Bull,  growing  surly. 

"  Doesn't  she  owe  you  money  ? — ^hasn't  me  run  a  long  bill  with 
you  } — isn't  she  gone  to  Bath  ? — and  do  you  flatter  yourself  she  '11 
come  back  to  pay  you,  eh  ?  " 

"  In  course,  Mrs.  Viper,"  said  Bull,  **  when  a  customer's  honour- 
ably paid  a  bill  once,  he 's  a  d — d  roj^ue  that  hopes  to  get  it  twice. 
Beg  pardon,  ladies,  Miss  Danvers  paid  me  yesterdav  morning  a  little 
bill  she  owed  me,  and  what 's  more  gave  young  Bob  a  shilling.  Any 
orders,  ladies.^  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Willetts — ^Mrs.  Viper,  your 
sarvant." 

Bull  rolled  out  of  the  room,  and  shut  the  street-door  rather 
roughly  after  him. 

"Paid  him!— well  I'm  sure! — Miss  Danvers  paid  him!— can't 
believe  it ! — very  odd  !" 

Another  ring :  Bettv  came  in. 

"  Please,  ma'am.  Mister  Philips  is  stepped  up  to  know  if  you  '11 
have  the  cabinet,  as  a  lady  thinks  of  taking  it  if  you  don't." 

"Tell  Philips  I  don't  wish  it,"  said  Mrs.  Willetts. 

'' Goodness  me !  don't  send  him  away,"  cried  Mrs.  Viper;  **let 
him  come  in,  my  dear  Mrs.  W.  Good  evening,  Mr.  Philips :  how  is 
Miss  Philips?" 

"Quite  charming,  Mrs.  Viper,"  smirked  the  upholsterer.  "I 
hope  I  see  you  well,  ladies,"  and  he  swept  off  his  hat,  and  bowed  all 
round,  "  quite  charming,  I  thank  you." 

'*  By  the  bye  those  were  uncommon  stylish  chairs  you  sent  in  yes- 
terday to  Elm  Cottage." 

''A  slap-up  article,  ladies,  London-made — solid  rosewood— silk 
damask,  nine-and-threepence  a  yard." 

Up  went  the  hands,  eyes,  and  noses  of  the  majority. 

"  And  the  sofa,  you  sent  that  in,  too  ?  " 

"  I  did,  ma'am  ;  very  handsome  thing.  Genoa  velvet— all  carved 
«-light  and  tasteful,  yet  durable  as  steel," 

"I  am  truly  sorry,  Philips." 

''  The  chimney  glass ! "  squealed  Mrs.  Spoonbill :  "  my  Mary  Ann 
took  particular  notice  of  that." 

"Ah!  that,"  said  Philips,  "Ashby  supplied;  I  had  not  one 
large  enough— magnificent  plate  fVom  Raven  head,  sixty  inches  by 
thirty-six — matchless  frame— splendidly  moulded." 

''Hum  1  ba !  upon  my  word,  she  has  grand  notions,"  writhed 
Mrs.  Viper ;  "  but  are  you  and  Mr.  Ashby  aware  that  Miss  Danvers 
has  gone  to  Bath  f  '* 

"  Gone  to  Bath ! "  shrieked  all  but  the  good-natured  young  lady 
and  old  Mrs.  Willetts. 

"  Gone  to  Bath  ! "  said  Philips,  very  tranquilly. 

"  Yes,  gone  to  Bath  I  suddenly  and  secretly.  Don't  look  as  if  it 
meant  nothing — the  thing  means  much— it  speaks  volumes— folios. 


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610  she's  gone  to  bath, 

I  may  say^  and  ought  to  be  a  landmark  to  tradesmen  how  they  en- 
courage wanton  wickedness  in  strangers." 

'*  I  don't  exactly  comprehend/'  stammered  Philips^  running  a 
finger  through  his  left  whisker^  and  gazing  helplessly  at  the 
q>eaker. 

^'  You  see  nothing  fraught  with  significance  in  this  stealthy  flight 
to  Bath?" 

Philips  started. 

**  Really^  ]^ou  don't  say  so  f  Well,  upon  my  soul !  if  it  be  so,  I  wish 
them  joy,*'  simpered  PhUips,  and  the  fellow  half  winked  as  he  spoke. 

**  Wish  them  joy !  what  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  some  persons  will  find 
it  a  very  fearful  trouble,  1  think,"  said  Mrs.  Viper,  bitterly. 

'^  God  bless  one ! "  stottaoed  Plulips,  turning  very  red,  ^'  I  hope 
not — most  sincerely  and  respectfully — I  hope  not  Mr.  George  is  a 
fine  frank-hearted  young  gentleman,  and  I  'm  quite  sure  wouldn't 
deceive  any  young  lady." 

''  Mr.  George  1  what  has  he  to  do  with  the  matter  ?  " 

*'  I  understood  you  to  mean,  ladies— excuse  me — ^that  Mr.  George 
and  Mi^s  Danvers  were  gone  to  Bath  to  get  married." 

There  was  a  general  murmur. 

"  We  mean  no  such  thing ;  we  mean  that  you  had  better  get  back 
your  carved  sofa  and  fine  chairs,"  added  Mrs.  Viper,  wrinkling  her 
nose  awfully,  "  if  you  don't  the  landlord  will  step  in." 

'*  I  'm  truly  sorry  to  hear  it,  ladies ;  but  I  'm  happy  to  say  as  fiur 
as  Ashby  and  I  are  concerned,  we  're  safe." 

<'  Safe ! "  shrieked  the  c^:isors. 

'^  Mr.  George  Benson  brought  the  monev  in  his  way  from  the 
bank,  and  then  went  over  and  settled  with  Jones." 

**  The  silversmith  ?  "  clamoured  the  party,  in  unspeakable  excite- 
ment. 

''  Exactly,  ladies ;  handsome  tea  service  ordered  by  Miss  Danvers, 
solid  silver,  and  newest  style." 

Fearful  looks  were  exchanged  at  the  tea-table :  one  lady  turned 
faint,  and  another  sick,  so  much  were  they  shocked  at  this  dis- 
covery." 

"(jTood  evening,  Mr.  Philips/'  said  Mrs.  Viper,  gravely,  while 
Mrs.  Spoonbill  and  Miss  Cramshaw  put  on  a  staid  yet  troubled  air  ; 
'^  your  story  is  true,  I  suppose,  and  as  you're  paid,  the  matter's  ended, 
unless,  indeed,  Messrs.  Forester  should  find  —  should  consider — 
should  be  legdly  compelled  to — arrest  Mr.  George  Benson  for  em- 
bezzlement    But,  however,  good  evening  I  " 

Mr.  Philips,  though  considerably  flustered,  forthwith  went  into  the 
fiflh  position,  bowed  low,  and  backed  out  of  the  parlour. 

'*  A  silver  tearservice  1  it 's  pretty  plain  why  Miss  Danvers  is  gone 
to  Bath,"  groaned  the  ladies,  in  a  voice  of  terrific  import 

*'  Poor  George  Benson !  I  feel  for  him,"  wailed  Mrs.  Spoonbill ; 
"my  Mary  Ann  was,  and  is,  partial  to  hun  still.  This  will  be  a 
dreadful  blow  to  her,  dear  child.  A  silver  tea  service!  That  de- 
praved hussy  never  ceased  her  wicked  manoeuvres  till  she  lured  him 
awav  from  my  daughter ;  and  you  see  the  end  of  it — a  silver  tea^ 
service ! — vice  and  mvolvement  I  " 

"  Robbery  and  forgery  ?  " 

"  Jack  Ketch  and  Tyburn  tree  ! "  added  a  clear  mellow  voice,  that 
caused  the  ladies  to  jump  from  their  chairs  and  nearly  upset  the 


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she's  gone  to  bath,  611 

table.    A  handsome  manly  face  loc^Led  in  at  the  parlour- window : 
<'  brighter  curls  or  merrier  blue  eyes,  ruddier  lips  or  blither  smile, 
never  claimed  a  glance  of  favour/'  so  said  Miss  Cramshaw. 
"  Jack  Ketch  and  Tyburn  tree ! " 

<^  At  sevMitetn  I  took  a  ^dfb. 
She  waa  the  glory  of  my  life. 
And  to  maintain  her  fine  and  gay, 
A-robbing  went  on  the  highway.** 

So  carolling,  Oeorge  Benson  pushed  aside  the  dwarf  Venetian, 
and  vaulted  in  at  the  window.  "  There,  1  've  furnished  you  with  a 
rhyming  illustration  of  your  text,  showing  in  right  lamentable  strain 
how  a  'prentice  bold,  snared  by  the  golden  locks  of  a  loving  damsel, 
jumped  over  the  broomstick,  and  then  full  gallantly  took  to  the 
road  to  buy  her  baubles." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Mrs.  Viper. 

"  Oh  ! "  sighed  Miss  Cramshaw. 

"  £h  dearee  me  I  *'  chirped  Mrs.  Spoonbill. 

Mrs.  Willetts  was  silent ;  Miss  Vernon  alone  looked  trusting  and 
cheerful. 

**  But  heyday  I  what 's  the  matter,  ladies  ?  "  cried  G^rge  Benson, 
half  seating  himself  on  the  pier^table,  and  looking  gaily  round. 

"  Mrs.  Willetts,  I  hope  you  have  no  bad  news.  Poll 's  well,  I 
see;  Pug  better?" 

The  old  lady  bowed. 

"  How  is  Miss  Danvers  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Viper. 

<'  In  high  health  and  spirits,  I  trust,"  replied  tne  young  man,  "  I  've 
not  seen  her  to-day." 

'*  I  dare  say  you  have  not,"  said  Mrs.  Viper  drily. 

*'  But,  I  'm  going  up  now.  Have  you  any  message  or  three-cor- 
nered  note  ?" 

''O  dear,  no,"  bridled  Mrs.  Viper.  ''Mrs.  Willets,  ladies,  have 
you  ?" 

"  O  dear,  no;  thank  you." 

'<  That  is  fortunate ;  for,  I  rather  think  that  if  we  had/'  continued 
Mrs.  Viper,  "  you  would  find  some  difficulty  in  delivering  it,  Mr. 
Benson." 

"Indeed!  why  so?" 

"You  are  not  aware,  then,  —  you  really  do  not  know—"  the 
speaker  paused. 

"  What,  my  dear  madam  ?" 

"  That  you  can't  see  Miss  Danvers  ?" 

"  Can't  see  her  —  by  Jove !  not  L  Kate 's  always  at  home  to  me 
when  her  aunt's  with  her." 

"  Ah !  very  proper,  of  course ;  appearances  must  be  consulted." 

"  Appearances,  maclam !"  cried  young  Benson,  with  flashing  eyes. 
"  Miss  Danvers  is  puritv  itself." 

"  No  doubt,  sir,    said  Mrs.  Viper  coldlv* 

"  And  carved  sofas,  rosewood  chairs,  silver  tea-sets,  and  chimney- 
glasses,  may  for  a  time  keep  up  appearances  too,"  chimed  in  Mrs. 
Spoonbill. 

"  This  passes  a  jest,  ladies,'*  said  the  young  man  sternly. 

"  So  I  think,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Viper ;  "  so  do  these  ladies ;  and 
it  pains  me  much  to  he  first  to  tell  you — " 

"  Speak,  for  God's  sake,  madam !"  cried  George  Benson,  quivering 
with  emotion. 


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612  she's  gone  to  bath. 


<'  That  Miss  Danvers  is 

*'Oone  to  Bath!"  shrieked  the  ladies^  rising  hastily  from  their 
chairs. 

George  Benson  seized  his  hat  *'  Gone  to  Bath !  impossible !  No 
such  thing !  You  've  been  hoaxed  and  fooled.  Who  told  you  this 
audacious  lie  ?" 

*'  Mrs.  Maunder/'  said  Mrs.  Viper. 

*'  Mrs.  Maunder/'  echoed  the  ladies. 

<<  Kate's  aunt !"  shouted  the  young  man,  and  he  rushed  out  of  the 
bouse." 

*'  You  should  not  have  told  him/'  said  Mrs.  Willetts. 

''Ah!"  cried  Mrs.  Spoonbill,  ''my  Mary  Ann  would  not  have 
served  him  so.    Oh,  she 's  a  vile>  hardened,  hypocritical  creature !" 

And,  despite  of  the  lady  of  the  house,  and  of  the  good-natured 
young  lady,  the  tongues  were  let  loose,  and  the  tempest  again  raged, 
and  poor  Kate  Danvers'  good  name  was  knocked  to  sawdust.  "  Ad- 
venturess," —  "  swindler,"  —  "  fortune-hunter,"—"  impudent," — 
"  shameless,"—"  artful,"—"  upstart,"—"  nobody,"  —  "  beggar  were 
phrases  that  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth. 

"  God  bless  me !  who 's  that  ?*'  said-  Mrs.  Willets. 

"  Miss  Danvsrs  !"  bawled  Betty,  opening  the  parlour-door.  The 
ladies  leaped  to  their  feet. 

"  You  don't  say  so?"  cried  Mrs.  Willets. 

Miss  Danvers !  Yes,  there  she  was  bodily, — as  fair — as  delicate — 
as  really  lovely  and  innocent-looking  as  if  George  Benson  had  not 
paid  her  bills  by  "  robbery  and  forgery."  A  cloth  cloak  and  a  shep- 
nerd's  maud,  strong  shoes,  and  a  stuff-gown,  might  have  told  of  a 
railway  expedition.  Miss  Danvers  did  not  display  them.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  simple  muslin,  with  a  plain  black  scarf,  and  a  cottage- 
bonnet  ;  her  dark  hair  was  in  smooth  bands ;  her  mien  calm,  her  air 
cordial  and  kind.  She  looked  so  incomparably  lovely,  lady-like 
graceful,  and  gracious,  that  something  like  compunction  smote  the 
breasts  of  all  but  Mrs.  Viper  and  the  mother  of  Mary  Ann. 

"  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Willetts,"  said  Kate  Danvers,  moving  grace- 
fully forward,  and  presenting  her  hand  to  the  old  lady, — "  good 
evening,  ladies !"  and  she  cast  her  charming  eyes  round  the  circle, 
"  I  heard  that  you  had  sent  your  maid  to  my  aunt,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Willetts,  and  that  you  favoured  her  with  a  call^  Miss  Cram- 
shaw/' 

No  one  spoke  articulately ;  but  looks  of  wonder  and  inquiry, — of 
confusion  and  annoyance,  travelled  from  face  to  face.  The  silence 
and  constraint  of  the  company  struck  Miss  Danvers. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  have  interrupted  you/'  said  she,  very  sweetly, 
"  if  so,  I  shall  regret  my  unceremonious  intrusion.  But  I  was  really 
impatient  to  be  the  bearer  of  good  news,  my  dear  Mrs.  Willetts. 
Your  grandson  is  promoted;  his  name  is  gazetted."  Kate  Danvers 
drew  from  her  reticule  a  London  paper. 

"Oh,  thank  you !  bless  you,  my  dear  child ! — thank  you !  thank 
you  !"  cried  old  Mrs.  Willetts,  taking  the  journal  with  trembling 
hands,  and  looking  with  sudden  tears  on  the  fair  face  of  the  young 
girl.  '*  Where  is  it  ?  Where  is  my  Richard's  name  ?  But,  no ;  1 
can't  read  it  now, — and  you — ^3rou  kind  gracious  creature  !" 

"  Nay,  see.  I  know  it  will  give  you  pleasure,"  and  Kate  Danvers 
unfolded  the  paper,  and  laid  a  white  finger  on  the  paragraph.  '"  En- 


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she's  gone  to  bath.  613 

sign  Richard  Sutton  Willetts,  — ^th  Foot,  to  be  Lieutenant  without 
purchase,  vice  Warrington,  deceased." 

"So  it  is !"  cried  the  old  lady,  in  smothered  accents, — " and  you, 
yon  darling  child  I  were  coming  to  give  me  this  pride,  and  joy 
While  1,  poor  wicked  old  creature !  was  letting  spite  and  malice 
backbite  and  slander  you.  Will  you — can  you  forgive  me  ?" 
Miss  Dan  vers  gaxed  on  the  pleader  in  alarm  and  surprise. 
**  You  are  too  trusting,  Mrs.  Willetts,"  warned  Mrs.  Viper.  *'  Have 
you  forgotten  ?"  and  she  put  her  hand  on  the  old  lady.  Mrs.  Willetts 
impatiently  shook  it  off. 

"  Go !"  she  said  sharply, — ''go  !  every  one  of  you,  but  that  sweet- 
tempered  Mary  Vernon." 

"  Lor'  I  Mrs.  Willetts,"  exclaimed  Mary  Ann's  mother,  "  did  you 
not  hear  it  yourself?" 

"  I  did,  and  m<Nre  shame  to  my  old  ears  to  listen  to  such  evil 
tongues." 

"Betty! — where 's  Betty?  Here!  come  in,  this  moment!*'  cried 
Mrs.  Viper,  fiercely,  calling  in  the  maid,  "  fVhat  did  Mrs.  Maunder 
tell  you  to-day  of  Miss  Dan  vers?" 
"  As  she  was  gone  to  Bath." 

"  Gone  to  Bath,  you  hear  !"  cried  Mrs.  Viper,  casting  a  ouailing 
look  at  Miss  Danvers.  "  Ellen  Cramshaw,  mhat  did  Mrs.  Maunder 
tell  ^ott,  I  beg  to  inquire." 

''  That  Miss  Danvers  was  gone  to  Bath." 

"  To  Bath  !"  said  Kate  Danvers,  springing  up  with  a  silvery 
laugh. 

A  fly  dashed  up  to  the  door :  there  was  a  thundering  rap,  that 
knocked  the  plates  off  the  dresser,  woke  Pug,  and  frightened  Poll. 

'*  George  Benson  1"  cried  Mrs.  Spoonbill.  The  parlour-door  was 
flung  wide,  and  two  old  ladies  entered  the  room,  followed  by  young 
Benson. 

"  My  dearest  aunt !    My  dear— dear  Mrs.  Mountjoy !"  said  Kate, 
flying  forward,  "  when  did  vou  return  ?     What  has  brought  you 
here  ?"  and  she  kissed  the  old  lady  on  the  cheek. 
Mrs.  Willetts  pointed  to  chairs. 

."  My  darling  Miss  Dknvers,  beg  your  aunt  and  the  stranger-lad 
to  be  seated.     I  am  happy  to  see  you,  ladies." 

Mrs.  Mountjoy  cast  a  quick  glance  at  the  speaker. 
"  Child  !  present  me  to  Mrs.  Captain  Willetts,"  said  she  to  Kate. 
Her  order  was  obeyed.  The  two  old  ladies  exchanged  stately 
courtesies,  and  Mrs.  Mountjov,  with  a  look  of  peculiar  benevolence 
at  Miss  Vernon,  sat  down.  Mrs.  Maunder  was  deaf,  and  heard  but 
half  of  what  was  said ;  but  she  seemed  very  excited,  and  would  not 
take  a  chair 

"It's  my  fault!"  she  cried,— "all  my  fault!  but,  could  I  ever 
have  supposed  that  mischief  would  be  made  of  it  ?  Oh,  for  shame  ! 
for  shame !" 

"  Never  mind,  aunt,"  cried  Kate ;  "  don't  put  yourself  in  a  pas- 
sion now ;  it  can  be  so  easily  explained." 

"  I  will  explain  this  terrible  mystery,"  said  George  Benson,  speak- 
ing in  a  tempered,  cheerful  tone,  for  Mrs.  Maunder  appeared  cha- 
grined. 

"  Mrs.  Spoonbill — my  dear  Miss  Cramshaw,  if  you  are  ready,  we 
may  take  leave,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Viper. 


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314  she's  GONE  TO   BATH. 

''  Stop,  ladies !"  cried  George  Benson,  and  he  placed  himself  at  the 
door,  '*  our  explanation  will  not  detain  you  many  seconds,  and  it  is 
the  moral  to  the  play,  Mrs.  Maunder  and  her  niece,  the  orphan 
daughter  of  a  gallant  soldier,  lived  at  Bath  Easton  before  they  came 
to  S»»*»*».  &th  Easton  is  two  miles  from  Bath,  and  Kate  Danvers^ 
like  a  good,  dutiful  little  girl,  as  she  was,  went  twice  a  week  with 
her  aunt's  maid,  to  market — " 

"  To  Bath,'*  cried  the  old  lady,  who  listened  hard,  and  heard  the 
full,  manly  tones  of  George  Benson. 

^'  Yes ;  went  to  Bath,  remember,"  said  George  Benson,  **  and,  by 
degrees,  to  so  to  market  and  to  to  go  to  Bath  became  synonymous 
phrases  in  the  mouth  of  Mrs.  Maunder.  Kate  Danvers  was  gone  to 
market,  Mrs.  Viper,  when  Betty  called,  and  when  Miss  Gratnshaw 
asked  for  her,  my  venerable  friend,  true  to  old  times,  to  old  habits, 
and  to  old  associations — may  we  all  be  so ! — answered,  unluckily,  as 
it  seemed  '  She  's  gonb  to  Bath.'  I  blush  to  say  that  her  inno* 
cent  forgetfulness  of  her  present  locality  was  made  the  source  of,  I 
fear,  cruel  imputation  on  a  spotless  name." 

Mrs.  Willetts  rang  the  bell. 

'*  Mrs.  Viper,  Mrs.  Spoonbill,  Miss  Cramshaw,  I  shall  wish  you 
good  evening,  and  a  final  adieu." 

"  Stay  I"  cried  Mrs.  Mountjoy,  in  a  tone  of  command,  "  let  all  be 
cleared  up  before  the  company  take  leave.  I  sent  in  the  plate  and 
furniture,  which  awakened  so  many  apprehensions  for  the  unfor- 
tunate tradespeople  in  the  minds  of  these  benevolent  ladies.  /  paid 
for  it :  it  is  my  poor  present  to  my  chosen  grand-daughter,  Kate 
Danvers,  in  three  days,  God  willing,  wife  of  my  dear  grandson 
George  Benson.  George  Benson,  give  your  arm  to  your  future 
wife." 

The  command  was  promptly  obeyed. 

"  Your  grandmother !  and  you  never  told  me  I"  murmured  the 
blushing  and  astonished  Kate. 

"  Dearest !  forgive  me.  I  was  bound  to  secresy,"  whispered  the 
happy  lover,  as  he  drew  her  arm  through  his,  and  exultantly  sus- 
tained her  in  the  midst  of  the  wondering  circle. 

''  I  am  a  proud  and  a  wilful  old  woman,"  continued  Mrs.  Mount- 
joy.  '<  Care  for  my  grandson,  anxiety  about  his  attachment,  and  an 
obstinate  determination  to  judge  for  myself,  brought  roe  incog,  to 
S###*«#^  I  came  without  servants  expressly,  took  up  my  abode  in  the 
quiet  home  of  Kate  Danvers  and  her  worthy  aunt,  and  commanded 
George  to  regard  me  as  a  stranger,  and  to  preserve  secret  our  rela- 
tionsnip." 

The  evil  geniuses  shrunk  discomfited  from  the  room  as  she  con- 
cluded, and  the  good-natured  young  lady  glanced  very  joyfully  at 
Mrs.  Willetts,  who  returned  her  look  with  equal  gladness. 

'*  Lord  a  mussy,  wot  a  comfort  I"  cried  Betty,  blubbering.  *'  Dear 
old  soul !  /  'II  know  her  meaning  fast  enough  when  next  she 
says — " 

**  Shb  's  60NB  TO  Bath  !"  repeated  Mrs.  Maunder. 


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615 


PRANCE  AND  HER  NATIONAL  ASSEMBLIES. 

WITH   A   PORTRAIT   OF   MIRABEAU. 
BT    JAMES    WARD. 

Whbh  we  read  the  accounts  of  the  National  Assemhly  in  France,  and 
bear  in  mind  the  singular  events  which  have  called  it  into  existence,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  heterogeneous  elements  of  which  it  is  composed,  we 
are  naturally  induced  to  compare  it  with  its  great  prototype  of  1 789. 
History  is  continually  repeating  herself;  and,  with  a  slight  variation  of 
facts,  the  features  of  the  present  age  are  but  a  fac-simile  of  the  past,  the 
principles  of  human  action  being  uniform  and  unchaiigeable.  It  is  that 
dight  variation^  however,  which  we  ought  to  note,  as  it  forms  the  only 
test  by  which  we  can  measure  the  onward  or  retrograde  movement  of  a 
people. 

After  fifty  years  of  schooling,  during  which  period  she  has  passed 
through  almost  every  phase  of  political  instruction,  France  has  come 
round  to  the  very  point  from  whence  she  started ;  and,  although  her  first 
lesson  cost  her  so  much  labour,  and  so  many  agonizing  efforts,  to  tho- 
roughly understand,  it  was  apparently  all  thrown  away  upon  her.  She 
appears  to-day  as  really  ignorant  of  its  spirit  and  import  as  she  was  half 
a  century  ago;  and  ere  she  reaches  the  pons  asinorum^  even  of  her  pre* 
sent  course,  we  venture  to  predict  that  she  will  abandon  it  for  some 
other,  which  we  earnestly  hope  may  be  more  congenial  to  her  tastes,  and 
better  adapted  to  her  peculiar  capacity. 

The  French  are  delighted  with  a  bon  mot,  which  they  bitterly  pointed 
against  the  old  Boui^n  dynasty,  **  that  they  had  learnt  nothing,  and 
forgotten  nothing;'*  but,  does  it  not  strike  our  lively  and  sensitive 
neighbours  that  the  sarcasm  would  lose  none  of  its  severity  were  it  ap- 
plied to  themselves  ?  After  all  the  experience  of  the  last  fifty  years 
what  have  they  learnt,  and  what  have  they  forgotten  ?  They  have 
passed  through  the  ordeal  of  a  republic,  a  consulate,  an  empire,  a  re- 
storation, a  republican-monarchy,  and  are  once  more  in  the  midst  of  a 
republic ;  and  have  they,  with  all  this  instruction,  forgotten  the  empty 
follies,  the  theatrical  tomfooleries,  the  showy  and  wasteful  displays  of 
their  progenitors?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Again,  what  have  they  learnt 
during  that  period  ?  Their  political  proceedings  at  the  present  moment ; 
their  internal  state ;  their  whole  industrial  condition — agricultural,  manu- 
facturing, and  commercial, — will  afford  the  readiest  an9wer  to  that  question. 

It  is  a  great  pity,  and  a  serious  loss  to  mankind,  that  a  nation  like 
France,  with  her  active  and  lively  mind,  with  her  vast  and  inventive  re- 
sources^  should  not  take  a  more  practical,  sagacious,  and  enlarged  view 
of  her  political  necessities ;  that  she  should  fritter  away  her  time  and 
strength  in  galvanic  efforts  to  establish  the  Utopian  nonsense  of  <'  liber- 
ty, equality,  and  fraternity •**  After  all  her  efforts,  gigantic  and  splendid 
as  they  really  are,  she  finds  herself  simply  whirling  round  and  round  in 
a  vicious  and  destructive  circle.  It  is  the  old  game  of  '*  labour  in  vain,*' 
although  played  out  on  a  grand  and  magnificent  scale.  But,  this  is  the 
foible  of  France,  and  she  must  be  fooled  <*  to  the  top  of  her  bent*'  Flat- 
tering herself  with  the  notion  that  she  is  the  great  political  laboratory  of 
the  age— the  experimentatn  crucu — through  which  must  pass  all  social 


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616  FRANCE, 

regeneration  and  improvement,  it  is  very  natural  that  she  should  think, 
although  she  may  not  proclaim  it  aloud,  that  she  is  entitled  to  the  first 
place  among  the  political  pioneers  of  the  age.  If  we  may  divine  the 
thoughts  of  a  people  from  their  actions,  she  would  seem  to  have  these 
words  continually  ou  her  lips  : — *'  We  are  the  instructors  of  the  world, 
— we  make  grand  experiments  for  their  advantage, — we  alone  are  de- 
serving of  admiration  among  nations.**  And,  to  blind  her  eyes,  and 
flatter  her  senses  with  these  fine  notions  more  effectively,  she  commands 
her  drums  to  beat,  her  cannons  to  roar,  and  her  flags  to  flare  in  the 
wind ;  and,  when  all  this  **  sound  and  fury "  have  died  away,  and  the 
measured  tramp  of  her  battalions — that  <*  music  to  her  soul  ** — has  for  a 
moment  palled  on  the  ear,  what  sort  of  figure  does  she  present  to  the 
eyes  of  the  thinking,  sensible,  and  reflective  portion  of  mankind,  —  we 
mean  those  who  can  value  precisely  empty  show  and  vulgar  excitement, 
— those  who  are  busied  in  creating  new  sources  of  improvement  for 
mankind,  not  in  devising  destructive  means  for  their  abasement  and 
misery  ?  Like  a  beggarly  spendthrift,  disporting  herself  in  the  tawdry- 
trappings  of  destruction — a  showy  victim  of  vanity,  wasting  her  fine 
energies  upon  foibles  and  follies  which  the  wise  and  practical  have 
scouted  long  ago  as  empty,  hurtful,  and  aimless. 

Before  France  can  hope  to  extricate  herself  from  such  a  position,  we 
believe  that  she  must  undergo  a  thorough  social  revulsion ;  and  that  the 
state  of  her  property,  and  the  laws  which  regulate  it,  must  be  placed 
upon  a  different  footing.  As  long  as  the  present  law  of  partake  Sgal 
exists,  she  must  always  be  a  nation  of  needy  paupers,  and  the  mass  of 
her  people  on  the  very  verge  of  existence  ;  and,  as  a  natural  result,  dis- 
affected and  diseased  in  mind,  ready  for  any  revolt  against  social  order, 
and  ripe  for  any  resistance  to  legal  authority.      ^ 

The  law  of  portage  igal  aims  a  deadly  blow  atsocial  progress,  as  it 
prevents  the  accumulation  of  capital,  and  without  the  accumulation  of 
capital,  which  serves  as  a  fund  for  the  constant  employment  of  labour, 
and  gives  a  new  impulse  to  the  industry  of  a  people,  it  is  impossible  that 
wealth  can  increase — which,  after  all,  is  the  nest-egg  of  a  nation's  peace 
and  prosperity.  We  have  not  space  here  to  enlarge  on  the  moral  bear- 
ings of  this  important  question, — of  the  healthy  stimulus  which  it  im- 
parts to  man  in  his  social  capacity,  by  flattering  his  ambition, — or,  it 
might  be  demonstrated  to  almost  mathematical  precision  that  the  law  of 
partage  egaly  the  fruit  of  the  Assembly  of  1791,  and  which  was  deemed 
a  master-stroke  of  policy  at  that  period,  has  been  the  prurient  cause  of 
the  present  diseased  and  unsettled  state  of  France. 

Mirabeau,  with  all  his  genius  and  foresight,  committed  an  egregious 
blunder  when  he  proposed  to  the  Assembly  the  abolition  of  the  law  of 
primogeniture.  Had  the  laws  of  political  economy,  and  their  bearing 
upon  property,  been  as  well  understood  in  that  age  as  they  are  at  pre- 
sent, he  would  have  shrunk  back  with  dread  at  the  prospect  of  France 
being  divided  into  millions  of 'p^tiy  propriStaires  ;  with  barely  sufficient 
for  a  scanty  subsistence ;  with  the  great  mass  of  their  live-stock  eaten 
off  the  land ;  with  a  harpy  race  of  usurers  haunting  the  poor  cultivator 
— the  nominal  proprietor — while  he  himself  was  plunged  chin-deep  in 
debt  and  mortgage,  and  all  this  misery  to  be  endured  under  the  delusive 
notion  that  he  was  to  be  independent  of  a  **  lord." 

Still  the  propriitaire  sticks  to  his  bit  of  land  with  great  tenacity,  not- 
withstanding the  heavy  burden  which  it  entails  upon  him ;  but  he  has 


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AND  HER  NATIONAL  ASSEMBLIES.  617 

always  this  hope-^somewhai  yague,  and  not  distinctly  defined  to  him- 
self, much  less  expressed  to  others  —  that  something  will  torn  up,  ha, 
cannot  tell  what,  to  ease  him  of  his  load,  and  free  him  from  his  burden* 
The  land  he  loves  with  all  its  sterility, — ^it  is  a  bit  of  property  which  he 
can  cling  to  in  the  eyent  of  any  fresh  whirl  or  upset  in  the  state  of 
things,  many  of  which  he  has  witnessed  with  his  own  eyes,  and  more 
that  he  has  heard  of  from  his  father's  lips ;  and  let  the  worst  come  to 
the  worst,  he  has  only  to  shake  (^  the  usurer  and  mortgagee — the  fiends 
that  nightly  haunt  him,  the  tyrants,  infinitely  more  oppressive  than  the 
"  lord  **  of  whom  he  has  a  traditional  dread,  —  then  the  bit  of  property 
will  be  his  own.  And  to  this  condition  France  must  come  at  last  The 
thirteen  millions  of  landed  proprietors  will  shake  off  the  annual  interest 
of  twenty-eight  millions  sterling  some  of  these  fine  revolutionaiy  morn- 
ings, with  as  much  ease  as  the  dew-drop  is  shaken  from  the  lion  s  mane* 
In  imagination  it  is  already  done  by  a  great  many  of  them — nine-tenths 
—and  then  comes  the  struggle,  compared  to  which  the  knocking- down 
of  a  dynasty,  or  her  Parisian  imeutesj  will  be  but  mere  milk-and-water. 
Nothing,  in  our  opinion,  can  avert  this  frightful  catastrophe  I 

The  consideration  of  this  question  brings  us  naturally  to 'the  recent 
elections  in  France.  Many  have  expressed  surprise,  taking  a  mere 
superficial  view  of  the  question,  at  the  conservative  tendency  of  the 
National  Assembly,  and  seem  to  augur  a  better  future  for  France  than 
circumstances  would  have  led  them  to  infer.  With  the  new  experiment 
of  universal  suffrage,  and  the  supposed  influence  of  republican  opinions, 
so  openly  expressed  and  so  industriously  inculcated,  it  was  confidently 
affirmed  that  the  representatives  of  the  new  assembly  would  be  thorough- 
ly imbued  with  the  spirit  of  republicanism ;  and  that  their  legislative 
labours  must  naturally  terminate  in  producing  alarm,  confusion,  and 
something  a  great  deal  worse  I  Well ;  these  anticipations  have  neither 
been  realised  nor  falsified.  Wait  awhile ;  they  are  just  as  likely  to  be 
the  one  as  the  other.  The  conservative  feeling  in  the  Assembly  arises 
from  the  fact  that  three-fourths  of  the  electors  of  France  are  possessed 
of  a  6i^  of  property,  and  that  they  have  chosen  their  representatives  from 
their  own  class,  from  an  identity  of  interest ;  and  the  mass  of  those  re- 
presentatives have  this  notion  deeply  engraven  on  their  minds,  that 
whatever  may  be  done  in  the  legblature,  they  are  determined  to  protect 
their  '<  bits  **  of  property,  and  those  of  their  constituents.  They  have 
been  sent  there  more  to  watch  over  their  pareeUes  of  land,  than  to  con- 
sult the  general  interests  of  the  country.  This  was  the  cause  of  the  cir- 
culars of  Camot,  and  the  emissaries  of  Ledru  Rollin,  meeting  with  so 
much  opposition  in  the  provinces. 

The  term  "  republican,"  with  the  mass  of  the  peasant-proprietors,  is 
synonymous  with  spoliation ;  their  ignorance  and  indifference  not  at- 
taching any  importance  to  political  distinctions, — the  one  is  as  good  as 
the  other  so  long  as  they  are  left  untouched.  They  imagined  that  the 
old  game  of  confiscation  was  going  to  be  played  over  again  ;  hence  their 
dread  of  republicanism.  But,  let  any  question  of  a  general  nature  come 
before  these  conservative  representatives,  which  involves  any  financial, 
commercial,  or  manufacturing  interests  —  about  which  the  majority 
know  as  much  as  they  do  of  the  antipodes, — then  you  will  see  the  value 
of  their  conservative  tendencies  tested ;  and  you  will  learn,  also,  the  real 
nature  of  their  legislative  dispositions,  when  any  deficiency  in  the 
revenue  is  to  be  made  up,  or  any  new  levy  of  troops  to  be  provided  for. 

VOL.  XXIII.  z   z 

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618  FRANCE, 

Whatever  interest  the  impost  may  fall  upon,  they  have  made  up  their 
minds  that  their  <'  bits  **  of  land  shall  not  bear  it.  In  the  meantime, 
although  thus  much  may  be  predicated  of  them,  let  us  hope  for  the  best ; 
but,  knowing  France,  and  the  character  of  her  people,  ^m  long  study 
and  experience,  we  must  confess  that  we  are  hoping  almost  against  hope. 

The  functions  of  the  old  and  the  new  assembly  are  essentially  opposed 
to  each  other ;  the  old  was  purely  destructive ;  the  new  will  be  purely 
constructive.  The  first  had  comparatively  an  easy  task ;  the  last  will 
have  an  Herculean  labour  to  perform.  To  knock  down  an  old  dynasty, 
already  tottering  to  its  fall  from  innate  decay,  is  not  so  difficult  a  job  as 
to  build  up  a  new  system  from  old  materials,  especially  when  those  ma- 
teriab  have  little  vitality  and  cohesion  in  their  nature.  But  before  we 
can  estimate  fairly  the  relative  difficulty  of  the  destructives  that  have 
passed  away,  and  the  constructives  who  are  just  commencing  their 
labours,  we  must  glance  at  the  work  already  completed ;  then  we  may 
possibly  arrive  at  something  like  a  clue  by  which  we  can  measure  the 
nature  and  extent  of  the  work  to  be  done. 

On  the  5th  of  May,  1789,  the  great  National  Convention  met  at  Ver- 
sailles, in  the  magnificent  hall  of  the  palace—^  ioUe  de$  menus*  This 
body  had  not  met  for  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  years  before  this  date. 
The  legislative  and  executive  powers  of  the  state  were  invested  in  the 
monarch,  his  grandees,  and  his  "  beds  of  justice;*'  and  the  people  found 
this  a  peculiarly  oppressive  and  exacting  piece  of  state  machinery,  which 
they  were  determined  to  reconstruct ;  and  if  they  could  not  succeed  iir 
reconstructing  it,  they  were  equally  determined  to  break  it  to  pieces. 
They  did  break  it  to  pieces,  and  with  a  vengeance,  too,  which  may 
afford  us  some  idea  of  the  weight  of  its  pressure  and  the  cruelty  of  its 
exactions.  It  is  the  last  straw  that  breaks  the  back  of  the  burdened 
beast ;  and  even  that  would  have  been  added  to  the  load,  had  not  the 
poor  creature,  in  very  despair  even,  flung  it  off  altogether.  The  people 
of  France  were  literally  ground  to  the  dust  by  arbitrary  taxation,  exact- 
ing privileges,  and  oppressive  monopolies.  Her  rulers  were  blinded  by 
ignorance  and  prejudice,  or  swayed  by  the  most  debasing  passions ;  and, 
whenever  a  transient  light  broke  in  upon  them — like  Turgot,  with  his 
salutary  views  and  practical  reforms — it  was  instantly  extinguished, 
which  shewed  the  darkness  in  which,  apparently,  they  were  content  to 
dwell.  The  whole  fabric  of  power,  in  short,  was  undermined,  and  every- 
thing denoted  a  thorough  and  speedy  break-up. 

«  Quem  deni  vult  perdere,  prios  dem«itat.** 

The  result  might  have  been  predicted  from  the  causes  that  had  long 
been  in  operation.  Louis  XIV.  cost  millions  in  playing  the  '<  stage- 
trick  of  royalty"  with  effect ;  Louis  XV.  had  his  mistresses,  his  wars, 
and  his  other  costly  items,  all  of  which  plunged  the  country  deeper  and 
deeper  in  debt ;  and  when  Louis  XVI.  ascended  the  throne — a  compara- 
tively good  and  harmless  prince — everything  was  culminating  to  the 
point  of  dissolution.  Had  the  latter  monarch  been  less  swayed  by  his 
confessor  and  his  Queen  ;  had  he  been  what  he  really  was  not, — a  firm 
and  decisive  character, — he  might  have  passed  through  the  fearful  crisis 
of  his  reign  with  more  credit  to  himself  and  with  greater  advantage  to 
the  country.  But  every  element  of  his  mind  told  against  him  in  action ; 
and  had  the  democratic  party  desired  a  prince  ready  made  to  their  hands 
for  furthering  their  designs  against  the  throne,  they  could  not  even  have 
imagrined  a  better  than  Louis  XVI.     The  ministers,  too,  in  whose  hands 


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AND  HER  NATIONAL   ASSEMBLIES.  619^ 

powerwas  placed,  were  utterly  incapable  of  grappling  with  the  difficul- 
ties which  stared  them  in  the  face ;  and  the  reins  dropped  from  their 
paralyzed  hands  in  rapid  succession.  Brienne  was  a  vain,  weak-minded 
prelate,  who  ruled  the  King  through  his  bigotry,  and  the  court  by  pan- 
dering to  its  unscrupulous  demands.  Calonne  was  a  dexterous  adminis- 
trator, but  reckless  and  extravagant,  and  completely  neutralized  his 
otherwise  able  powers  by  his  indolence,  his  pleasures,  and  Ms  rapacity. 
He  augmented  the  financial  difficulty  by  his  administrative  extrava- 
gance^ asd  left  the  country  more  deeply  involved  than  he  found  it. 
Neeker  was  the  idol  of  the  day,  and,  from  the  simple  fnct  of  his  being  a 
successful  banker,  it  was  ignorantly  argued  that  he  would  make  a  good 
minister  of  finance ;  as  though  the  knowledge  of  the  details  of  a  trade, 
which  are  invariably  simple  and  uniform,  would  enable  a  man  to  com- 
prehend the  principles  by  which  that  trade  is  governed.  A  mere  dealer 
in  money  does  not  necessarily  understand  the  laws  by  which  it  is  regn* 
lated ;  a  greater  reasoning  power  and  a  higher  range  of  intellect  are  de- 
manded for  such  a  purpose.  Yet  Neeker  was  as  incompetent  to  master 
the  difficulties  as  his  predecessors,  and  quitted  his  post  with  a  deficiency 
in  the  budget  of  115  millions  of  livres,  or  about  £4,750,000 — an  enor- 
mous item,  which  swamped  the  government  and  crushed  the  crown. 

At  this  stage  of  the  crisis  there  appeared  upon  the  scene  one  of  those 
daring  and  energetic  spirits  who  instinctively  take  the  lead,  and  are  as 
instinctively  obeyed.  Mirabeau  was  the  man  of  his  age.  It  was  his 
ondaunted  and  capacious  mind  that  gave  a  direction  to  the  National  As- 
sembly in  every  critical  emergency,  and  has  left  the  impress  of  his 
genius  upon  all  its  proceedings.  The  life  of  that  extraordinary  man  was 
a  perfect  reflex  of  the  revolution ;  of  the  causes  which  led  to  it,  in  the 
eormpt  and  disorganised  state  of  society ;  of  the  characters  who  played 
a  prominent  part  in  it,  and  the  peculiar  ability  required  to  direct  it  to  a 
right  end.  In  dwelling,  therefore,  upon  his  character  and  movements 
for  a  short  space,  we  shall  be  enabled  to  give  indirectly  a  sketch  of  that 
remarkable  epoch,  which  forms  the  model  of  the  comparatively  moderate 
movements  in  France  at  the  present  moment 

It  would  be  a  waste  of  time  to  dwell  upon  the  follies  of  his  youth, 
which,  in  grreat  measure,  were  caused  by  the  eccentric  conduct  of  his 
father,  and  the  general  depravity  of  the  times.  His  intrigues  in  after 
life,  and  his  infidelity  to  his  wife,  are  only  to  be  palliated  on  the  ground 
that  the  moral  injunctions  of  the  time  hung  loosely  about  society,  and 
that  his  strong  passions  and  eccentric  character  gave  a  more  than  ordi- 
nary prominence  to  his  vices.  Great  men  have  seldom  little  vices.  The 
persecutions  of  his  father  were  cruel,  unnatural,  and  detestable;  yet 
they  gave  a  peculiar  turn  to  Mirabeau*s  mind,  which  augmented  its 
power  and  shaped  his  subsequent  action.  His  flight  to  Holland  to 
escape  the  cruelty  of  the  former,  and  the  vengeance  of  the  law,  com- 
pelled him  to  work  for  a  Dutch  bookseller  from  six  in  the  morning  till 
nine  at  night  for  a  bare  subsistence ;  and  his  subsequent  imprisonment 
at  Vincennes  threw  him  upon  his  mind  for  resources,  which  naturally 
quickened  its  thought  and  disciplined  his  intellect  But  these  irregu- 
larities of  his  youth— elopements,  dissipation,  and  imprisonments — ^pre- 
pared him  for  the  part  he  was  afterwards  to  play  in  the  great  drama  of 
the  age. 

That  Mirabeau  had  long  foreseen  the  time  when  the  people  would 
assume  their  proper  position  in  the  legislature,  may  be  inferred  from  his 

a  z  2 


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620  FRANCE, 

letter  to  Calonne,  which  he  wrote  from  Berlio.  "  I  should,"  he  writes, 
**  hold  myself  infiDitely  honoured  in  being  secretary  to  an  assembly  of 
which  I  had  the  happiness  to  suggest  the  idea." 

On  his  arrival  in  France,  he  started  for  his  native  province  as  a  repre- 
sentative, but  was  rejected  by  the  nobility  on  a  mere  informality,  which 
exasperated  his  feelings,  and  flung  him  into  the  ranks  of  the  people.  His 
remonstrance  upon  that  occasion  embodies  some  fine  truths,  which  are 
always  seasonable,  and  sometimes  pointedly  applicable. 

'<  In  what,  then,"  said  he,  "  have  I  been  so  culpable  ?  I  have  desired 
that  the  order  to  which  I  belong  should  give  to-day  what  will  infallibly 
be  extorted  from  it  to-morrow.     Behold  the  crime  of  him  who  is  called 

the  enemy  of  the  nobles  and  of  peace  1 But  I  am  still  more 

Criminal  than  you  suppose,  for  I  firmly  believe  that  the  people,  when 
they  complain,  are  always  in  the  right ;  that  they  always  wait  the  last 
extremity  of  oppression  before  they  resolve  to  resist ;  that  the  people  do 
not  kno\%  the  secret,  that  to  be  formidable  to  their  enemies,  they  need 
only  stand  still ;  and  that  the  most  innocent,  as  the  most  invincible  of 
all  faculties,  is  that  of  refusing  to  act  I  think  all  this.  Punish  me, 
the  enemy  of  your  order,  and  of  peace." 

This  was  the  armoury  from  which  O'ConneU  drew  his  weapons  of 
**  passive  resistance,"  and  had  stereotyped,  in  his  own  mind,  many  of  the 
practical  truths  which  Mirabeau  gave  utterance  to. 

The  fops  and  fribbles  about  the  court  taunted  htm  with  his  new  asso- 
ciates, and  nick-named  him  the  <^  plebeian  count ;"  but  he  returned  the 
compliment  with  threefold  energy,  and  treated  them  with  contempt.  And 
when  the  title  of  the  Assembly  was  discussed,  having  proposed  that  of 
^  Representatives  of  the  French  People,"  some  one  sneering  at  the  ex- 

Sression,  he  burst  forth  with  one  of  those  impromptu  truths  for  which 
e  was  so  remarkable : — 
<M  am  told,"  he  exclaimed.  ^  that  the  acceptation  of  this  word 
'people 'is  mean  and  exclusive;  I  care  little  for  the  signification  of 
words  in  the  absurd  language  of  prejudice.  I  speak  the  language  of 
freedom  here.  I  rely  upon  the  example  of  the  English,  who  have  con- 
secrated the  word  in  their  declarations,  laws,  and  policy. ...  It  is 
because  the  name  of  '  people '  is  not  sufficiently  respected  in  France, 
because  it  is  pronounced  contemptuously,  that  we  should  choose  it — 
that  we  should  not  only  raise,  but  ennoble  it" 

His  object  in  this  adroit  proposition  was  to  limit  the  democratic 
power ;  which  clearly  proves  that,  although  he  had  doffed  his  nobility 
for  the  nonce^  he  had  not  lost  sight  of  its  spirit,  and  of  the  position  that 
it  really  ought  to  occupy  in  the  commonwealth.  The  proposition  of 
National  Assembly  by  Legrand  was,  however,  preferred. 

There  was  a  prophetic  forecast  in  most  of  his  oratorical  efibrts,  which 
will  be  found  singularlv  applicable  at  the  present  time.  In  this  respect 
he  resembled  Burke,  who,  from  the  storehouse  of  his  opulent  mind,  flung 
out  great  truths  which  are  always  fiill  of  life,  and  almost  always  adapted 
to  passing  events.  The  well-known  bankruptcy-speech  of  Mirabeau, 
which  electriBed  the  Assembly  of  1798,  reads  as  fresh  at  the  present 
day  as  it  did  when  uttered ;  and  ought  to  be  printed  and  placed  upon 
every  seat  in  the  Assembly  of  1848,  to  scare  the  nascent  members  of 
that  body  from  the  hideous  gulf  which  already  yawns  to  receive  them, 
as  it  did  their  ancestors  half  a  century  ago. 

**  I  would  say  to  those  who  familiarize  their  minds  with  the  contem- 
plation of  bankruptcy,  what  is  bankruptcy  but  the  most  cruel,  the  most 

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AND  HER  NATIONAL   ASSEMBLIES.  621 

iniquitouti  the  most  unequal,  the  most  disastrous  of  imposts?  My 
fHends,  hear  me  a  word — but  one  word.  Two  centuries  of  depredation 
and  roHbery  have  opened  the  gulf  which  is  about  to  swallow  up  the 
kingdom.  This  frightful  gulf  must  be  closed.  Well,  here  is  the  list  of 
the  French  landowners ;  choose  among  the  richest,  in  order  to  sacrifice 
the  fewest  citizens.  Choose  —  choose,  at  all  events ;  for  must  not  a 
small  number  perish  to  save  the  mass  ?  Come ;  there  are  two  thou- 
sand notables,  possessing  the  means  of  filling  up  the  deficit.  Restore 
order  to  the  finances^  peace  and  prosperity  to  the  kingdom.  Strike — 
immolate,  without  mercy,  those  unhappy  victims ;  precipitate  them  into 
the  abyss,  and  instantly  it  closes !  You  start  back  with  horror  I  In- 
consistent, pusillanimous  men  I  Do  you  not  perceive  that  in  decreeing 
bankruptcy,  or,  what  is  still  more  odious,  in  rendering  it  inevitable  with- 
out decreeing  it,  you  cover  yourselves  with  the  infamy  of  an  act  a  thou- 
sand times  more  crindnal ;  for  the  sacrifice,  horrible  as  it  is,  would  not 
dose  the  gulf.  Do  you  suppose  that,  because  you  will  not  have  paid,  you 
will  therefore  cease  to  be  in  debt  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  the  thousands, 
the  millions  of  men,  who  shall  lose  in  an  instant,  by  the  terrific  explosion 
or  its  rebound,  all  that  was  their  comfort  in  life,  and  perhaps  their  sole 
means  of  existence,  will-  leave  you  in  the  peaceable  enjoyment  of  your 
crime  ?  No,  you  will  perish ;  and  in  the  general  conflagration  which 
you  do  not  shudder  to  light  up,  the  loss  of  your  honour  will  not  save 
even  a  single  one  of  your  vile  enjoyments.  Vote,  then,  this  extraordi- 
nary subsidy ;  and  may  it  suffice.  Beware  of  demanding  time ;  cala- 
mity never  allows  it  You  have  heard  pronounced,  with  rage,  the 
words,  <  Catiline  is  at  the  gates  I  and  they  deliberate  I*  Certainly,  we 
have  neither  Catiline,  nor  danger,  nor  faction,  nor  Rome ;  but  bank* 
ruptcy,  hideous  bankruptcy,  is  upon  us  !  threatens  to  devour  you,  your 
properties,  your  honour — and  you  deliberate." 

Let  the  members  of  the  National  Assembly  bear  this  speech  in  mind, 
and  make  every  effort  to  supply  the  deficiency  in  the  financial  accounts, 
by  fair  and  equitable  means ;  and  not  countenance  the  wild  propositions 
of  spoliators  and  plunderers.  Increased  taxation,  fairly  and  justly 
levied,  is  the  only  plan  to  extricate  France  from  her  difficulties ;  and 
not  by  confiscating  property,  whether  in  the  shape  of  railroads  or  the 
deposits  of  a  savings'  bank.  The  public  credit,  above  all,  ought  to 
be  kept  inviolate,  or  the  most  hideous  calamities  must  inevitably  befall 
her. 

Mirabeau  took  an  active  part  in  the  proceedings  of  the  Assembly, 
and  his  first  appearance  among  that  body,  from  his  preceding  reputation 
and  character,  made  a  great  impression.  "  A  movement  arose,*'  says  an 
eye*witness,  *<  at  the  sight  of  Mirabeau ;  but  his  look,  his  step,  awed  the 
Assembly.*'  He  vowed  vengeance  against  his  enemies,  and  entered  the 
hall  with  an  embittered  feeling  against  the  class  which  had  tabooed 
him.  A  friend  observed  to  him,  as  he  took  his  seat,  that  he  ought  to 
conciliate  them — that  he  ought  to  ask  pardon  for  his  preceding  conduct. 
**  1  am  come  here,"  he  exclaimed  with  fiery  energy,  "  to  be  asked,  not 
to  ask  pardon." 

The  bankruptcv  speech  made  a  great  impression  upon  the  Assembly, 
and  enabled  Necker  to  carry  his  point ;  and  such  was  the  excitement 
when  the  orator  had  finished,  that,  when  a  member  rose  and  said,  «•  I 
rise  to  reply  to  M.  Mirabeau,"  the  whole  body  looked  at  him  with  silent 
wonder,  and,  after  standing  for  a  moment  with  his  mouth  open  and  hi« 
arm  raised,  he  sat  down  without  uttering  another  word. 

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622  FRANCfi^  AND  HER  NATIONAL   ASSEMBLIES. 

It  was  under  the  influence  of  Mirabeau's  mind  that  the  firtt  Asaem* 
bly  accomplished  so  much,  and  rendered  such  important  services  to 
mankind ;  for  we  find  among  the  matters  discussed  some  important  facts 
and  principles  bearing  upon  society  and  government— such  as  the  liberty 
of  the  press ;  the  freedom  of  religious  worship ;  civil  and  penal  juris- 
prudence ;  and,  with  the  exception  of  the  division-of-property  questioQ 
— perhaps  the  most  important  of  all,  as  every  other  in  some  measure  is 
dependant  upon  it  —  we  may  safely  point  to  that  body,  directed  by  that 
single  mind,  as  forming  one  of  the  brightest  and  best  assemblages  thai 
the  history  of  the  world  records. 

Unfortunately  for  the  monarchy,  for  France,  and,  we  must  say,  for 
the  world,  Mirabeau  died  at  the  early  age  of  forty-two.  He  was  sup- 
posed to  have  been  poisoned,  although  nothing  authentic  is  known  of 
such  a  circumstance;  but,  on  his  death-bed,  he  gave  utterance  to  a 
truth  which  was  speedily  realized :  <<  I  shall  carry  the  monarchy  with 
me,"  he  observed  to  his  surrounding  friends,  **  and  a  few  factious  spirits 
will  share  what  is  left"  His  loss  was  looked  upon  as  a  public  cala- 
mity, and  a  public  funeral  was  accorded  him,  which  was  celebrated  with 
great  pomp ;  yet,  within  two  short  years— such  is  popularity — his  ashes 
were  exhumed  from  their  resting-place  in  the  Pantheon,  and  scattered 
to  the  winds ;  his  bust  was  burnt  in  the  Place  de  Grdve,  as  an  enemy  to 
the  public,  and  he  verified  in  his  remains  a  truth  which  he  had  uttered 
while  in  the  prime  of  life,  '*  that  the  Capitol  was  close  to  the  Tarpeian 
rock,  and  that  the  same  people  who  flattered  him^  would  have  had  equal 
pleasure  in  seeing  him  hanged." 

We  look  in  vain  for  the  **  coming  man"  in  the  present  crisis  of 
France.  All  eyes  are  turned  to  that  fine  country,  now  tossing  in  the 
stormy  waters  of  revolution,  to  catch  the  outline  of  him  whose  genius 
and  capacity  are  capable  of  steering  her  to  the  destined  port  of  safety  and 
repose.  Run  over  the  list  of  her  leading  characters,  who  are  "  fretting 
their  hour"  upon  the  political  stage,  and  ask  yourself  a  few  plain  practi- 
cal questions,  such  as  the  mind  of  an  Englishman  is  accustomed  to  ask 
—  is  there  one  man,  or  two  men,  or  half-a-dosen  combined,  could  you 
melt  all  their  minds  into  one,  gifted  with  the  requbite  stuff;  the  sterl- 
ing, practical  knowledge,  which  sees  even  the  real  situation  of  France 
at  tha  present  moment  ?  Who  can  fathom  the  depth  of  the  disease,  in 
the  shape  of  the  land-question,  which  is  eating  into  her  vitals,  paupe- 
rising her  in  every  direction,  and  must  be,  until  arrested,  the  perennial 
source  of  future  revulsions  and  crimes,  of  which  it  would  be  difficult  to 
form  a  notion.  We  shall  say  nothing  of  her  financial  difficulties,  which 
are  already  too  gigantic  for  the  puny  pretenders  who  have  been  recently 
playing  at  accounts ;  they  will  force  themselves  on  her  attention,  long 
before  France  is  capable  of  dealing  with  them.  But  her  land-question, 
with  its  minute  subdivision  of  proprietors,  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  her 
present  difficulties.  As  long  as  the  laws  relating  to  property  remain  as 
they  do  at  present,  she  will  never  rear  up  a  class,  which  would  be  her 
salvation —  a  class  of  capitalists,  who  form  in  every  industrious  commu- 
nity the  heart  and  soul  of  its  existence.  Without  your  capitalist  you 
can  have  but  little  employment  for  labour ;  and  the  law  of  partage  igal 
is  daily  striking  down  this  class  of  men  in  France,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
hair-brained  schemes  and  wild  projects  of  Louis  Blanc,  and  that  class  of 
economists. 


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623 
THE  DECISIVE  BATTLES  OP  THE  WORLD. 

BT    PR0FS880B    OBBAST. 

Those  few  battles  of  which  a  contrary  event  would  hare  eMentially  varied  the 
drama  of  the  world  in  all  its  subsequent  scenes. — Uallam. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  VALMY. 

Purpurei  metuunt  tyranni 
Injurioso  ne  pede  proruas  • 

Stantem  ooluranam  ;  neu  populus  frequens 
Ad  arma  cessantes,  ad  anna 
Ck>ncitet  imperiumque  frangst. 

HomAT.  Od.  1.  36. 
A  little  fire  is  quickly  trodden  out. 
Which,  being  suffered,  rivers  cannot  quench. 

SHAKSPEAmX. 

A  FBW  miles  distant  from  the  little  town  of  St.  Menehould>  in  the 
north-east  of  France,  are  the  village  and  hill  of  Valmy ;  and  near 
the  crest  of  that  hill  a  simple  monument  points  out  the  burM-place 
of  the  heart  of  a  general  of  the  French  republic,  and  a  marshal  of 
the  French  empire. 

The  elder  Kellerman,  (father  of  the  distinguished  officer  of  that 
name,  whose  cavalry-charge  decided  the  battle  of  Marengo,)  held 
high  commands  in  the  French  armies  throughout  the  wars  of  the 
Convention,  the  Directory,  the  Consulate,  and  the  Empire.  He 
survived  those  wars,  and  the  Empire  itself,  dying  in  extreme  old 
age  in  1820.  The  last  wish  of  the  veteran  on  his  death-bed  was, 
that  his  heart  should  be  deposited  in  the  battle-field  of  Valmy, 
there  to  repose  among  the  remains  of  his  old  companions-in-arms, 
who  had  fallen  at  his  side  on  that  spot  twenty-eight  years  before, 
on  the  memorable  day  when  they  won  the  primal  victory  of  Revo- 
lutionary France,  and  prevented  the  armies  of  Brunswick  and  the 
emigrant  bands  of  Conde  from  marching  on  defenceless  Paris,  and 
destroying  the  immature  democracy  in  its  cradle. 

The  Duke  of  Valmy  (for  Kellerman,  when  made  one  of  Napo- 
leon's military  peers  in  1802,  took  his  title  from  this  lame  battle* 
field)  had  partiapated  during  his  long  and  active  career,  in  the  gain- 
ing of  many  a  victory  far  iHore  immediately  dazzling  than  the  one, 
the  remembrance  of  which  he  thus  cherished.  He  had  been  present 
at  many  a  scene  of  carnage  where  blood  flowed  in  deluges,  compared 
with  which,  the  libations  of  slaughter  poured  out  at  v  almy  would 
have  seemed  scant  and  insimificant.  But  he  rightly  estimated  the 
paramount  importance  of  the  battle  with  which  he  thus  wished  his 
appellation  while  living,  and  his  memory  after  his  death,  to  be  iden- 
tified* The  successful  resistance  which  the  raw  Carmagnole  levies, 
and  the  disorganised  relics  of  the  old  monarchy's  army  uien  opposed 
to  the  combined  hosts  and  chosen  leaders  of  Prussia,  Austria,  and 
the  French  refugee  noblesse,  determined  at  once  and  for  ever  the 
belligerent  character  of  the  Revolution.  The  raw  artisans  and  trades- 
men, the  clumsy  burghers,  the  base  mechanics  and  low  peasant- 


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624  THE  DECISIVE  BATTLES  OF  THE   WORLD. 

churls^  as  it  had  been  the  fashion  to  term  the  middle  and  lower 
classes  in  France^  found  that  they  could  face  cannon-balls,  pull 
triggers,  and  cross  bayonets,  without  having  been  drilled  into  mili- 
tary machines,  and  without  being  officered  by  scions  of  noble  houses. 
They  awoke  to  the  consciousness  of  their  own  instinctive  soldier- 
ship. They  at  once  acquired  confidence  in  themselves  and  in  each 
other ;  and  that  confidence  soon  grew  into  a  spirit  of  unbounded 
audacity  and  ambition.  *'  From  the  cannonade  of  Valmy  may  be 
dated  the  commencement  of  that  career  of  victory  which  carried 
their  armies  to  Vienna  and  the  Kremlin."  * 

We  can  now,  from  what  is  passing  before  our  eyes,  discern  even 
more  clearly  the  importance  of  the  conflict  of  Valmy,  than  could 
Kellerman  in  1820,  or  than  could  the  historian  of  Europe,  from 
whom  the  last  sentence  was  quoted,  when  he  composed  his  great 
work  only  a  few  years  ago.  The  impetus  which  that  triumph  gave 
to  the  French  spirit,  was  not  exhausted  in  a  single  career  of  victory, 
and  was  inextinguishable  by  the  alternation  of  defeat.  The  restless 
energy  inspired  by  it  was  never  more  fearfully  manifest  than  it  is 
at  the  present  hour.  The  French  Republic  is  again  mustering  her 
armed  myriads  from  among  her  rural  and  civic  population.  Her 
troops,  under  the  old  banner,  and  with  the  old  war-cry  of  '96,  are 
again  d5llecting  near  the  foot  of  the  Alps  and  the  bank  of  the  Rhinew 
Her  generals,  in  their  orders  of  the  day,  breathe  the  very  spirit  of 
the  old  bulletins ;  however  temporising  and  pacific  may  be  the  tone 
of  the  statesmen  who  maintain  a  precarious  ascendancy  at  Paris.  With 
two  European  wars  actually  raging  before  them,  with  the  elements 
of  insurrection  and  strife  in  full  activity  throughout  the  continent, 
(and,  alas,  not  on  the  continent  only,)  who  can  doubt  but  that  thoa«> 
sands  of  die  fiery  youth  of  France  are  watching  eagerly  for  the  first 
pretext  or  provocation,  that  may  justify  them  in  coming  forward  as 
protectors  or  avengers,  and  in  once  more  advandng  the  tricolor 
over  Lombardy,  to  Rome  and  Naples,  or  to  the  Danube,  the  Vis* 
tula,  and  the  Baltic  ?  Look,  too,  at  the  risk  of  fatal  dissension  that 
exists  on  every  sea  where  Enrlish  and  French  sailors  or  settlers 
come  into  contact.  Any  hot-headed  captain,  any  petulant  com* 
mandant,  any  intriguins  missionary,  may  at  once  create  real  or  sup* 
posed  cause  of  offence  between  the  two  proud  and  jealous  nation^ 
such  as  only  blood  will  wash  out.  There  will  be  no  more  proffers  of 
apology,  aiji)  votes  of  compensation  in  such  caaes,-i-at  least  not  oH 
the  part  of  France.  No  statesman  in  that  repubHo  would  dare  risk 
the  odium  which  the  Pritchard  indemnity  brought  on  Oiiiaot.  Any 
French  government  might  at  once  rise  to  the  lenith  of  mob  and 
military  popularity  by  declaring  war  with  this  country.  Gkx>d 
management  and  good  fortune  may,  for  a  time,  prevent  such  coUi^ 
sions,  but  they  seem  ultimately  inevitable.  And  whenever,  and 
with  whomsoever  revolutionary  France  declares  war,  that  war  will 
speedily  become  European  and  generaL  France  is  too  clearly  on 
the  eve  of  a  fresh  cycle  of  invasions,  conquests,  military  despotisms, 
and  stem  reactions,  which  must  shake  the  old  world  to  its  founda* 
tions. 

One  of  the  gravest  reflexions  that  arises  from  the  contemplation  of 
the  civil  restlessness  and  military  enthusiasm,  which  the  dose  of  the 

•  Alison. 


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THE  BATTLE  OF  VALMY.  625 

last  oeDtury  saw  natkynalised  in  France,  is  the  consideration  that 
these  disturbing  influences  have  become  perpetual.  This  volcanic 
people  seems  destined  neither  to  know  nor  to  suffer  permanent  resC 
No  settled  system  of  government,  that  shall  endure  n'om  generation 
to  generation,  that  shall  be  proof  against  corruption  and  popular 
violence,  seems  capable  of  takmg  root  among  them.  And  wnife  we 
cannot  hope  to  see  France  calmed  and  softened  down  by  healing 
processes  from  within,  there  is  still  less  prospect  of  seeing  her  effect- 
ively curbed,  and  thoroughly  tamed  by  force  from  without.  No  hos- 
tile exertions,  however  formidably  they  may  be  organised,  however 
ably  they  may  be  conducted,  however  triumphant  they  may  be  for  a 
time,  can  trample  France  out  from  the  list  of  the  living  nationalities 
of  Europe,  and  dismiss  her  ambition  and  her  power  to  the  Hades  of 
the  Past,  to  the  Phantom  Memories  of  Babylon,  of  Nineveh,  of 
Tyre,  of  Carthage,  and  of  Rome.  A  compact  and  homogeneous 
nation  o^ thirty-six  miUions,  —  all  zealous  adorers  of  military  fame, 
and  readily  susceptible  of  military  habits, — all  intensely  and  arro- 
gantly convinced  of  their  own  superiority  to  the  rest  of  mankind,— 
all  eager  for  adventure  and  display,  and  almost  all  scoffingly  impa- 
tient of  the  control  of  ancient  law  or  ancient  faith  —  such  a  natioA 
can  never  be  brought  to  enduring  submission  by  the  results  of  mo- 
dern battles ;  and  the  stem,  exterminating  spirit  of  ancient  warfare 
ean  never  be  revived  in  Europe.  Cassar  effectually  subdued  Oaul  by 
slauffhtering  one-third  of  its  population,  and  selling  thousands  of  the 
residue  into  slavery.  France  has  no  such  horrors  to  dread  ft^om  any 
defeats,  however  disastrous,  that  may  be  the  results  of  such  wars  as 
it  may  please  her  Arom  time  to  time  to  inflict  upon  the  world.  As 
for  dismembering  her,  like  Poland,  her  geographical  position,  and 
that  of  her  antagonists,  would  render  such  a  scheme  futile.  The 
severed  provinces  would  reunite,  and  the  republic  **  one  and  indi- 
visible'* would  re-appear,  as  soon  as  the  gripe  of  the  conquerors  was 
relaxed  by  distance,  or  by  disunion  among  themselves.  Indeed,  no 
Anti-Oallican  can  dream  of  seeing  France  more  effectively  broken 
down  than  she  was  in  1815.  Paris  was  then  for  the  second  time  in 
fifteen  montibs  occupied  by  triumphant  invaders.  Years  of  de- 
structive, and  latterly  of  disastrous  warfare,  had  drained  the  land  of 
its  3routh.  Every  region,  fhmi  the  sands  of  Syria  to  the  snows  of 
Muscovy,  was  strewn  with  Frenchmen's  bones.  Every  river,  fVom 
the  Dnieper  to  the  Beresina,  the  Vistula,  the  Danube,  the  Elbe,  the 
Rhine,  the  Tagus,  the  Douro,  the  Bidassoa,  the  Aube,  the  Mame, 
and  the  Seine,  haui  been  crimsoned  with  her  defeats.  Her  flag  had 
been  swept  from  every  sea.  Powerful  foreign  armies  were  cantoned 
in  her  territory,  and  garrisoned  her  strongholds.  A  sense  of  com- 
mon interest,  the  recollection  of  former  joint  sufferings,  and  sympa- 
thetic exultation  for  recent  joint  successes,  banded  the  powers  of  the 
earth  against  her.  They  seemed  knit  together  in  stem  watchfulness 
over  the  Isllen  oppressor,  that  lay  chained  befbre  them,  like  the  wolf 
Fenris  beneath  the  Assc  of  the  Scandinavian  m3rtholoffy.  Men 
judged  of  the  future  accordingly.  They  deemed  thfU  revolution  had 
been  for  ever  put  down,  and  that  legitimate  authority  was  re-esta- 
blished on  m  immutable  basis.  But  the  power  of  France  was  like 
the  tree  of  Pallas  in  the  Athenian  citadel,  which,  though  hewn  down 
by  the  Persian  invader  to  the  very  roots,  revived,  and  put  forth  ita 


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626  THE  DECISIVE  BATTLES  OP  THE  WORLD. 

branch^  with  redoubled  stateliness  and  vigour.  A  few  years  re- 
cruited the  population  of  the  land ;  and  a  generation  soon  arose 
which  knew  not  Waterloo^  or  only  knew  it  as  a  watchword  for  re- 
venge. In  1830,  the  dynas^  which  foreign  bayonets  had  imposed  on 
France,  was  shaken  off;  and  men  trembled  at  the  expected  outbreak 
of  French  anarchy  and  the  dreaded  inroads  of  French  ambition. 
They  ^*  looked  forward  with  harassing  anxiety  to  a  period  of  destruc- 
tion similar  to  that  which  the  Roman  world  experienced  about  the 
middle  of  the  third  century  of  our  era/'  *  Louis  Philippe  cajoled 
Revolution^  and  then  strove  with  seeming  success  to  stifle  it.  But»  in 
spite  of  Fieschi  laws,  in  spite  of  the  daszle  of  Algerian  razsias  and 
Pyrenee-effadng  marriages,  in  spite  of  hundreds  of  armed  forts,  and 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  coercing  troops.  Revolution  lived  and 
struggled  to  get  free.  France  had  no  auiet,  and  Europe  no  security. 
The  dd  Titan  spirit  heaved  restlessly  beneath  ^'  the  monarchy  based 
on  republican  institutions."  At  last,  in  the  present  year,  the  whole 
fabric  of  king-crafl  was  at  once  rent  and  scattered  to  the  winds  by 
the  uprising  of  the  Parisian  democracy ;  and  insurrections,  barri- 
cades, and  dethronements,  the  downfalls  of  coronets  and  crowns, 
the  armed  collisions  of  parties,  systems,  and  populations,  have 
become  for  the  last  few  months  the  commonplaces  of  European 
historjr. 

It  IS  inaccurate  to  speak  of  the  first,  the  second,  and  the  new 
French  Revolution :  as  if  they  were  distinct  unconnected  catastrophes, 
arbitrarily  disturbing  the  regular  course  of  events.  There  has  been, 
and  is,  but  one  French  Revolution ;  and  its  third  and  greatest  wave 
is  now  bursting  over  us.  There  have  been  temporary  lulls  of  the 
storm,  but  never  any  settled  calm.  The  republic  which  was  pro. 
claimed  in  Paris  last  month,  is  the  mere  continuation  by  adjourn* 
ment  of  the  republic  which  was  first  proclaimed  on  the  20th  Sep- 
tember, 1792,  on  the  very  day  of  the  battle  of  Valmy^  to  which  it 
owed  its  preservation,  and  from  which  the  imperishable  activity  of 
its  principles  may  be  dated. 

Far  different  seemed  the  prospects  of  democracy  in  Europe  on  the 
eve  of  that  battle ;  and  far  different  would  have  been  the  present 
position  and  influence  of  the  French  nation,  if  Brunswick's  columns 
had  charged  with  more  boldness,  and  Dumouriez's  lines  resisted 
with  less  firmness.    When  France  in  1792  declared  war  with  the 

Seat  powers  of  Europe,  she  was  far  from  possessing  that  splen* 
d  military  organization  which  the  experience  of  a  few  Tey€»» 
lutionary  campaigns  taught  her  to  assume,  and  which  she  has 
never  abandoned.  The  army  of  the  old  monarchy  had,  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XV.,  sunk  into  gradual  decay 
both  in  numerical  force  and  in  effidencjr  of  equipment  and  spirit. 
The  laurels  gained  by  the  auxiliary  regiments  which  Louis  XVL 
sent  to  the  American  war  did  but  litUe  to  restore  the  general 
tone  of  the  army.  And  the  insubordination  and  licence  which 
the  revolt  of  the  French  guards,  and  the  participation  of  other 
troops  in  manv  of  the  first  excesses  of  the  revolution  introduced 
among  the  soldiery,  were  soon  rapidly  disseminated  throueh  all 
the  ranks.      Under  the  Legislative  Assembly  every  complaint  of 

*  See  Niebuhr's  Preface  to  the  Second  Folume  of  his  History  of  Rome,  writtea 
in  October,  1830. 


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THE  BATIXS  OF  VALMY,  627 

the  sddier  against  his  officer,  however  frivolous  or  ill-founded, 
was  eagerly  Bstened  to  and  partially  investigated,  on  the  prin- 
ciples of  liberty  and  equality.  Discipline  accordingly  became 
more  and  more  relaxed.  And  the  dissolution  of  several  of  the  old 
corps,  under  the  pretext  of  their  being  tainted  with  an  aristocratic 
feehng,  aggravated  the  confusion  and  inefficiency  of  the  war-depart* 
ment.  Many  of  the  most  effective  regiments  during  the  last  period 
of  the  monarchy  had  consisted  of  foreigners.  These  had  either 
been  slaughtered  in  defence  of  the  throne  against  insurrections,  like 
the  Swiss ;  or  had  been  disbanded,  and  had  crossed  the  frontier  to 
recruit  the  forces  which  were  assembling  for  the  invasion  of  France. 
Above  all,  the  emigration  of  the  nobksse  had  stripped  the  French 
army  of  nearly  all  its  officers  of  high  rank,  and  of  the  greatest  por- 
tion of  its  subalterns.  Above  twelve  thousand  of  the  high-bom 
youth  of  France,  who  had  been  trained  to  regard  military  com- 
mand as  their  exclusive  patrimony,  and  to  whom  the  nation  had 
been  accustomed  to  look  up  as  its  natural  guides  and  champions  in 
the  storm  of  war,  were  now  marshalled  beneath  the  banner  of  Conde 
and  the  other  emigrant  princes,  for  the  overthrow  of  the  French 
armies,  and  the  reduction  of  the  French  capital.  Their  successors  in 
the  French  regiments  and  brigades  had  as  vet  acquired  neither  skill 
nor  experience ;  they  possessed  neither  self-reliance,  nor  the  respect 
of  the  men  who  were  under  them. 

Such  was  the  state  of  the  wrecks  of  the  old  army ;  but  the  bulk 
of  the  forces  with  which  France  began  the  war,  consisted  of  raw  in- 
surrectionary levies,  which  were  even  less  to  be  depended  on.  The 
Carmagnoles,  as  the  revolutionary  volunteers  were  called,  flocked, 
indeed,  readily  to  the  frontier  from  every  department  when  the  war 
was  proclaimed,  and  the  fierce  leaders  of  the  Jacobins  shouted  that 
the  country  was  in  danger.  They  were  full  of  zeal  and  courage, 
"  heated  and  excited  by  the  scenes  of  the  revolution,  and  inflamed 
by  the  florid  eloquence,  the  songs,  dances,  and  signal- words  with 
which  it  had  been  celebrated."*  But  thejr  were  utterly  undis- 
ciplined, and  turbulently  impatient  of  supenor  authoritpr,  or  syste- 
matic control.  Many  ruffians,  also,  who  were  sullied  with  partici- 
pation in  the  most  sanguinanr  horrors  of  Paris,  joined  the  camps, 
and  were  pre-eminent  ^ke  i^r  misconduct  before  the  enemy,  and 
for  savage  insubordination  against  their  own  officers.  On  one  occa- 
sion during  the  campaign  of  Valmy,  ei^ht  battalions  of  federates, 
intoxicated  with  massacre  and  sedition,  joined  the  forces  under  Du- 
mouriez,  and  soon  threatened  to  uproot  all  discipline,  saying  openly 
that  the  ancient  officers  were  traitors,  and  that  it  was  necessary  to 
purge  the  army  as  they  had  Paris  of  its  aristocrats.  Dumouriez 
posted  these  battalions  apart  from  the  others,  placed  a  strong  force 
of  cavalry  behind  them,  and  two  pieces  of  cannon  on  their  flank. 
Then  affecting  to  review  them,  he  halted  at  the  head  of  the  line,  sur- 
rounded by  aU  his  staff,  and  an  escort  of  a  hundred  hussars.  "  Fel- 
lows," said  he,  "  for  J  will  not  call  you  either  citizens  or  soldiers, 
you  see  before  you  this  artillery,  behind  you  this  cavalry ;  you  are 
stained  with  crimes,  and  I  do  not  tolerate  here  assassins  or  execu^ 
doners.  I  know  that  there  are  scoundrels  amongst  you  charged  to 
excite  you  to  crime.    Drive  them  from  amongst  you,  or  denounce 

*  Soott.    Life  of  Napoleon,  vol.  i.  o.  viii. 

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THE  DECISIVE  BATTLES  OF  THE  WORLD* 

them  to  me^  for  I  shall  hold  jou  responsible  for  their  con- 
duct" • 

One  of  our  recent  historians  of  the  revolution,  who  narrates  this 
incidentyt  thus  apostrophises  the  French  general : — 

'*  Patience,  O  Dumouriez,  this  uncertain  heap  of  shriekers,  routi- 
neers^ were  they  once  drilled  and  inured,  will  become  a  phiJanxed 
mass  of  fighters ;  and  wheel  and  whirl  to  order  swiftly,  like  the 
wind,  or  the  whirlwind ;  tanned  mustachio-figures ;  often  barefoot, 
even  barebacked,  with  sinews  of  iron ;  who  require  onlv  bread  and 
gunpowder ;  very  sons  of  fire,  the  adroitest,  hastiest,  hottest  ever 
seen  perhaps  since  AtUla's  time," 

Such  phalanxed  masses  of  fighters  did  the  Carmagnoles  ultimately 
become ;  but  France  ran  a  fearful  risk  in  having  to  rely  on  them, 
when  the  process  of  their  transmutation  had  barely  commenced. 

The  first  events,  indeed,  of  the  war  were  disastrous  and  disgrace- 
ful to  France,  even  beyond  what  might  have  been  expected  from 
the  chaotic  state  in  which  it  found  her  armies  as  well  as  her  govern- 
ment In  the  hopes  of  profiting  by  the  unprepared  state  of  Austria, 
then  the  mistress  of  the  Netherlands,  the  French  opened  the  cam- 
paign of  1792  by  an  invasion  of  Flanders,  with  forces  whose  muster- 
rolls  showed  a  numerical  overwhelming  superioritv  to  the  enemy, 
and  seemed  to  promise  a  speedy  conquest  or  that  old  battle-field  of 
Europe.  But  the  first  fiash  of  an  Austrian  sabre,  or  the  first  sound 
of  an  Austrian  gun,  was  enough  to  discomfit  the  French.  Their 
first  corps,  four  thousand  strong,  that  advanced  f^om  Lille  across 
the  frontier,  came  suddenly  upon  a  far  inferior  detachment  of  the 
Austrian  garrison  of  Toumay.  Not  a  shot  was  fired,  not  a  bayonet 
levelled*  With  one  simultaneous  cry  of  panic  the  French  broke 
and  ran  headlong  back  to  Lille,  where  they  completed  the  specimen 
of  insubordination  which  they  had  given  in  the  field,  by  murdering 
their  general  and  several  of  their  chief  officers.-  On  the  same  day 
another  division  under  Biron^  mustering  ten  thousand  sabres  and 
bayonets,  saw  a  few  Austrian  skirmishers  reconnoitring  their  posi- 
tion. The  French  advanced  posts  had  scarcely  given  and  received 
a  volley,  and  only  a  few  balls  from  the  enemy's  field-pieces  had 
fallen  among  the  lines,  when  two  regiments  of  French  dragoons 
raised  the  cry  '<  We  are  betrayed,"  galloped  off,  and  were  followed 
in  disgraceful  rout  by  the  rest  of  the  whole  army.  Similar  panics, 
or  repulses  almost  equally  discreditable,  occurred  whenever  Ro- 
diambeau,  or  Luckner,  or  La  Fayette,  the  earliest  French  generals 
in  the  war,  brought  their  troops  into  the  presence  of  the  enemy. 

Meanwhile  the  allied  sovereigns  had  gradually  collected  on  the 
Rhine  a  veteran  and  finely-disciplined  army  for  the  invasion  of 
France,  which  for  numbers,  equipment,  and  martial  renown  both  of 
generals  and  men,  was  equal  to  any  that  Germany  had  ever  sent 
forth  to  conquer.  Their  design  was  to  strike  boldly  and  decisively 
at  the  heart  of  France,  and  penetrating  the  country  through  the 
Ardennes,  to  proceed  by  Chalons  upon  Paris.  The  obstacles  that 
lay  in  their  way  seemed  insignificant  The  disorder  and  imbecility 
of  the  French  armies  had  been  even  auffmented  by  the  forced  flight 
of  Lafayette,  and  a  sudden  change  of  generals.  The  only  troops 
posted  on  or  near  the  track  by  which  this  allies  were  about  to  ad- 

LamarUne.  t  Carljle. 

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THE  BATTLE  OP  VALMT.  620 

vft&ce,  were  the  twenty-diree  thousand  men  at  Sedan,  whom  La- 
fayette had  commanded,  and  a  corps  of  twenty  thousand  near  Meta, 
the  command  of  which  had  just  been  transferred  from  Luckner  to 
Kellerman,  There  were  only  three  fortresses  which  it  was  necessary 
for  the  allies  to  capture  or  masque— Sedan,  Longwy,  and  Verdun* 
The  defences  and  stores  of  all  these  three  were  known  to  be  wretch- 
edly dismantled  and  insufficient ;  and  when  once  these  feeble  barriers 
were  overcome,  and  Chalons  reached,  a  fertile  and  unprotected 
country  seemed  to  invite  the  invaders  to  that  *'  military  promenade 
to  Paris,"  which  they  gaily  talked  of  accomplishing. 

At  the  end  of  July  the  allied  army,  having  fully  completed  all 
preparations  for  the  campaign,  broke  up  from  its  cantonments,  and 
marching  from  Luxembourg  upon  Longwy,  crossed  the  French 
frontier.  Sixty  thousand  Prussians,  trained  in  the  school,  and  many 
of  them  under  the  ^e  of  the  Great  Frederick,  heirs  of  the  glories  of 
the  Seven  years'  war,  and  universally  esteemed  the  best  troops  in 
Europe,  marched  in  one  column  against  the  central  point  of  attack. 
Forty- five  thousand  Austrians,  the  greater  part  of  whom  were  pick- 
ed troops,  and  had  served  in  the  recent  Turkish  war,  supplied  two 
formidable  corps  that  supported  the  flanks  of  the  Prussians.  There 
was  also  a  powerful  body  of  Hessians ;  and,  leagued  with  the  Oer- 
mans  against  the  Parisian  democracy,  came  fifteen  thousand  of  the 
noblest  and  the  bravest  anongst  the  sons  of  France.  In  these  corps 
of  emigrants,  many  of  the  highest  bom  of  the  French  nobility, 
scions  of  houses  whose  chivalrlc  trophies  had  for  centuries  filled 
Europe  with  renown,  served  as  rank  and  file.  They  looked  on  the 
road  to  Paris  as  the  path  which  they  were  to  carve  out  by  their 
swords  to  victory,  to  honour,  to  the  rescue  of  their  king,  to  reunion 
with  their  families,  to  the  recovery  of  their  patrimony,  and  to  the 
restoration  of  their  order.  * 

Over  this  imposing  army  the  Allied  Sovereigns  placed  as  gene, 
ralissimo  the  Duke  of  Brunswick,  one  of  the  minor  reigning  princes 
of  Germany,  a  statesman  of  no  mean  capacity,  and  who  had  acquired 
in  the  Seven  years  war  a  military  reputation  second  only  to  that  of 
the  Great  Freiderick  himself.  He  had  been  deputed  a  few  years  be- 
fore to  quell  the  popular  movements  which  then  took  place  in  Hol- 
land ;  and  he  had  put  down  the  attempted  revolution  in  that  coun- 
try with  a  promptitude  and  completeness,  which  appeared  to  augur 
equal  success  to  the  army  that  now  marched  under  nis  orders  on  a 
similar  mission  into  France. 

Moving  majestically  forward,  with  leisurely  deliberation,  that 
seemed  to  show  the  ccmsdousness  of  superior  strength,  and  a  steady 
purpose  of  doing  their  work  thoroughly,  the  allies  appeared  before 
Longwy  <m  the  20th  of  August,  and  the  dispirited  and  despondent 
garrison  opened  the  gates  of  Uiat  fortress  to  them  after  the  first 
shower  c^  bombs.  On  the  2nd  of  September  the  still  more  import- 
ant strong-hold  of  Verdun  capitulated,  after  scarcely  the  shadow  of 
resistance. 

Brunswick's  superior  fwce  was  now  interposed  between  Keller- 
man's  troops  on  the  left,  and  the  other  French  army  near  Sedan, 
which  Lafayette's  flight  had,  for  the  time,  left  destitute  of  a  com- 
mander. It  was  in  the  power  of  the  German  general,  by  striking 
with  an  overwhelming  mass  to  the  right  and  the  left,  to  crush  in 
•SesScoit.    life  of  Napoleon,  ▼d.i.o.xL 


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680  THE  DECISIVE  BATTLE8  OP  THE  WORLD. 

succesrion  each  of  these  weak  armies ;  and  the  allies  might  then 
have  marcbeil  irresistible  and  unresisted  upon  Paris.  But  at  this 
crisis  Dumouriez^  the  new  commander-in-chief  of  the  French,  ar- 
rived at  the  camp  near  Sedan,  and  commenced  a  series  of  move^ 
ments  bj  which  he  reunited  the  dispersed  and  disorganized  forces 
of  his  country,  checked  the  Prussian  columns  at  the  very  moment 
when  the  last  obstacles  to  their  triumph  seemed  to  have  given  way, 
and  finally  rolled  back  the  tide  of  invasion  far  across  the  enemy's 
frontier. 

The  French  fortresses  had  fallen  ;  but  nature  hersdf  still  offered 
to  brave  and  vigorous  defenders  of  the  land  the  means  of  opposing 
a  barrier  to  the  progress  of  the  allies.  A  ridge  of  broken  ground, 
called  the  Argonne,  extends  from  the  vicinity  of  Sedan  towards  the 
south-west  for  about  fifteen  or  sixteen  leagues.  The  country  of 
L'Arsonne  has  now  been  cleared  and  drained ;  but  in  1792  it  was* 
thickly  wooded,  and  the  lower  portions  of  its  nnequal  surface  were 
filled  with  rivulets  and  marshes.  It  thus  presented  a  natural  barrier 
of  from  four  to  five  leagues  broad,  which  was  absolutely  impene- 
trable to  an  army,  except  by  a  few  defiles,  such  as  an  inferior  force 
might  easily  fortify  and  defend.  Dumouriez  succeeded  in  march- 
ing his  army  down  from  Sedan  behind  the  Arsonne,  and  in  occupy-^ 
inff  its  passes,  while  the  Prussians  still  lingered  on  the  north-easternf 
side  of  the  forest  line.  Ordering  Kellernnm  to  wheel  round  from^ 
Metz  to  St.  Menehould,  and  the  reinforcements  from  the  interior 
and  extreme  north  also  to  concentrate  at  that  spot,  Dumouriez  trust- 
ed to  assemble  a  powerful  force  in  the  rear  of  the  south-west  extre- 
mity of  the  Areonne,  while  with  the  twenty-five  thousand  men 
under  his  immediate  command,  he  held  the  enemy  at  bay  before  the 
passes,  or  forced  him  to  a  long  circumvolution  round  one  extremity 
of  the  forest  ridge,  during  wluch,  favourable  opportunities  of  assaif- 
inff  his  flank  were  almost  certain  to  occur.  Dumouriez  fortified  the 
principal  defiles,  and  boasted  of  the  Thermopylae  which  he  had 
found  for  the  invaders ;  but  the  analogy  was  nearly  rendered  fatally 
com]>lete  for  the  defending  force.  A  pass,  which  was  thought  of 
inferior  importance,  had  b^n  but  slightly  manned,  and  an  Austrian 
corps  under  Clairfayt,  forced  it  amr  some  sharp  fighting,  Du- 
mouriez with  ffreat  difficulty  saved  himself  from  being  enveloped 
and  destroyed  by  the  hostile  columns  that  now  pushed  through  the 
forest*  But  instead  of  despairing  at  the  failure  of  his  plans,  and 
falling  back  into  the  interior  to  be  completely  severed  from  Keller- 
man's  army,  to  be  hunted  as  a  fugitive  under  the  walls  of  Paris  by 
the  victorious  Germans,  and  to  lose  all  chance  of  ever  rallying  his 
dispirited  troops,  he  resolved  to  cling  to  the  difficult  country  in 
which  the  armies  still  were  grouped,  to  force  a  junction  with  Keller- 
man,  and  so  to  place  himself  at  the  head  of  a  force  which  the  in- 
vaders would  not  dare  to  disregard,  and  by  which  he  might  drag 
them  back  from  the  advance  on  Paris,  which  he  had  not  l^en  able 
to  bar.  Accordingly,  by  a  rapid  movement  to  the  south,  during 
which,  in  his  own  words,  ^'  France  was  within  a  hair*s-breadth  of 
destruction,"  and  after  with  difficulty  checking  several  panics  of  hia 
troops,  in  which  they  ran  by  thousands  at  the  sight  of  a  few  Prus- 
sian hussars,  Dumouriez  succeeded  in  establishing  his  head-quarters 
in  a  strong  position  at  St  Menehould,  protected  by  the  marshes 
and  shallows  of  the  rivers  Aisne  and  Aube^  beyond  which,  to  the 


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THE  BATTI^  OP  VALMY.  631 

north-westy  rose  a  firm  and  elevated  plateau,  called  Dampierre's 
camp,  admirably  situated  for  commanding  the  road  by  Chalons  to 
Paris,  and  where  he  intended  to  poet  Kellerman's  army  so  soon  as 
it  came  up.* 

The  news  of  Dumouriez's  retreat  from  the  Argonne  passes,  and  of 
the  panic  flight  of  some  divisions  of  his  troops,  spread  rapidly 
throughout  the  country,  and  Kellerman,  who  believed  that  his  com* 
rade's  army  had  been  annihilated,  and  feared  to  fall  among  the  vic- 
torious masses  of  the  Prussians,  had  halted  on  his  march  from  Met? 
when  almost  dose  to  St.  Menehould.  He  had  actually  commenced 
a  retrograde  movement,  when  couriers  from  his  commander-in-chief 
checked  him  from  that  fatal  course ;  and,  continuing  to  wheel  round 
the  rear  and  lefl  flank  of  the  troops  at  St.  Menehould,  Kellerman, 
with  twenty  thousand  of  the  army  of  Metz,  and  some  Uiousands  of 
volunteers,  who  had  joined  him  in  the  march,  made  his  appearance 
to  the  west  of  Dumouriez's  position,  on  the  very  evemng  when 
Westerman  and  Thouvenot,  two  of  Dumouriez's  stafl^-orders,  gallop- 
ed  in  with  the  tidings  that  Brunswick's  army  had  come  through  the 
upper  passes  of  the  Argonne  in  full  force,  and  was  deploving  on  the 
heights  of  La  Lune,  a  chain  of  eminences  that  stretch  obliauely  from 
south-west  to  north-east,  opposite  the  high  ground  wfaira  Dnmou- 
riez  held,  and  also  opposite,  but  at  a  shorter  distanee  from,  the  posi- 
tion  which  Kellerman  was  designed  to  occupy. 

The  allies  were  now,  in  fact,  nearer  to  Paris  than  were  the  French 
troops  themselves;  but,  as  Dumonriez  had  foreseen,  Brunswick 
deemed  it  unsafe  to  march  upon  the  capital  with  so  large  a  hos- 
tile force  left  in  his  rear  between  his  advancing  columns  and  his 
base  of  operations.  The  young  King  of  Prussia,  who  was  in  the 
allied  camp,  and  the  emigrant  princes  eagerly  advocated  an  instant 
attack  upon  the  nearest  French  general,  and  Kellerman  had  laid 
himself  unnecessarily  open,  by  advancing  bevond  Dampierre's  camp, 
which  Dumouriez  had  designed  for  him,  ancl  moving  forward  across 
the  Aube  to  the  plateau  of  Valmy,  a  post  inferior  in  strength  and 
space  to  that  which  he  had  left,  and  wnich  brought  him  close  upoir 
the  Prussian  lines,  leaving  him  separated,  by  a  dangerous  interval, 
from  the  troops  under  Dumouriez  himself.  It  seemed  easy  for  the 
Prussian  army  to  overwhelm  him  while  thus  isolated,  and  then  they 
might  surround  and  crush  Dumouriez  at  their  leisure. 

Accordingly  the  right  wing  of  the  allied  armv  moved  forward  in 
the  grey  of  the  morning  of  the  20th  of  September,  to  gain  Keller- 
man's  left  flank  and  rear,  and  cut  him  off  from  retreat  upon  Chalons, 
while  the  rest  of  the  army  moving  from  the  heights  of  La  Lune, 
which  here  converge  semicircularly  round  the  plateau  of  Valmy, 
were  to  assail  his  position  in  front,  and  interpose  between  him  and 
Dumouriez.  An  unexpected  collision  between  some  of  the  advanced 
cavalry  of  each  side  in  the  low  ground,  warned  Kellerman  of  the 
enemy's  approach.  Dumouriez  had  not  been  unobservant  of  the 
danger  of  his  comrade,  thus  isolated  and  involved;  and  he  had  or- 
der^ up  troops  to  support  Kellerman  on  either  flank  in  the  event 
of  his   being  attacke<L    These  troops,  however,  moved  forward 

*  Some  late  writen  represent  that  Bnmswick  did  not  wish  to  crush  Dumou- 
ries.  There  is  no  sufficient  authority  for  this  insinuation,  which  seems  to  liave 
been  first  prompted  by  a  desire  to  soothe  the  wounded  military  pride  of  the  Prus- 
sians. 


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63S  THE  DEdSIVB  BATTLES   OF  THE   WORLD. 

•IowIt;  and  KeUemian's  army  ranged  on  the  platoiu  of  V$lmy, 
*'  projected  like  a  cape  into  the  midst  of  the  lines  of  the  Prussian 
bayonets."  *  A  thick  autumnal  mist  floated  in  waves  of  vapour 
over  the  plains  and  ravines  that  lay  between  the  two  armies^  leaving 
only  the  crests  and  peaks  of  the  hills  glittering  in  the  early  light. 
About  ten  o'clock  the  fog  began  to  clear  ofT^  and  then  the  FVench 
from  their  promontory  saw  emerging  from  the  white  wreaths  of 
mist^  and  glittering  in  the  sunshine^  the  countless  Prussian  cavalry 
which  were  to  envelope  them  as  in  a  net,  if  once  driven  from  their 
position,  the  solid  columns  of  the  infantry  that  moved  forward  as  if 
animated  by  a  single  will,  the  bristling  batteries  of  the  artillery,  and 
the  glancing  clouds  of  the  Austrian  light  troops,  fresh  from  their 
contests  with  the  Spahis  of  the  east. 

The  best  and  bravest  of  the  French  must  have  beheld  this  spec- 
tacle with  secret  apprehension  and  awe.  However  bold  and  reso. 
lute  a  man  may  be  in  the  discharge  of  duty,  it  is  an  anxious  and 
fearful  thing  to  be  called  on  to  encounter  danger  among  comrades 
of  whose  steadiness  you  can  feel  no  certainty.  Each  soldier  of 
Kellerraan's  army  must  have  remembered  the  series  of  panic  routs 
which  had  hitherto  invariably  taken  place  on  the  French  side  during 
the  war ;  and  must  have  cast  restless  glances  to  the  right  and  left, 
to  see  if  any  symptoms  of  wavering  began  to  show  themselves,  and 
to  calculate  how  long  it  was  likely  to  be  before  a  general  rush  of  his 
cdmrades  to  the  rear  would  either  hurry  him  off  with  involuntary 
disgrace,  or  leave  him  alone  and  helpless  to  be  cut  down  by  assail- 
ing multitudes. 

On  that  very  morning,  and  at  the  self-same  hour  in  which  the 
allied  forces  and  the  emigrants  began  to  descend  from  La  Lune  to 
the  attack  of  Valmy,  and  while  the  cannonade  was  opening  between 
the  Prussian  and  the  Revolutionary  batteries,  the  debate  in  the  Na- 
tional Convention  at  Paris  commenced  on  the  proposal  to  proclaim 
France  a  Republic. 

The  old  monarchy  had  little  change  of  support  in  the  hall  of  the 
Convention ;  but  if  its  more  effective  advocates  at  Valmy  had 
triumphed,  there  were  yet  the  elements  existing  in  France  for  an 
effective  revival  of  the  better  part  of  the  ancient  insdtuticms,  and  for 
substituting  Reform  for  Revolution.  Only  a  few  weeks  before,  nu- 
merously signed  addresses  from  the  middle  classes  in  Paris,  Rouen, 
and  other  large  cities,  had  been  presented  to  the  king  expressive  of 
their  horror  of  the  anarchists,  and  their  readiness  to  uphold  the  rights 
of  the  crown,  together  with  the  liberties  of  the  subject.  The  inef- 
fable atrocities  of  the  September  massacres  had  just  occurr&l,  and 
the  reaction  produced  by  them  among  thousands  who  had  pre- 
viously been  active  on  the  ultra-democratic  side,  was  fresh  and 
powerful.  The  nobility  had  not  yet  been  made  utter  aliens  in  the 
eyes  of  the  nation  by  long  expatriation  and  civil  war.  There  was 
not  yet  a  generation  of  ^outh  educated  iff  revolutionary  principles, 
and  knowing  no  worship  save  that  of  military  glory.  Louis  XVI. 
was  just  and  humane,  and  deeply  sensible  of  the  necessity  of  a  gradual 
extension  of  political  rights  among  all  classes  of  his  subjects.  The 
Bourbon  throne,  if  rescued  in  17^>  would  have  bad  the  chances  of 
stability  such  as  did  not  exist  for  it  in  1814,  and  seem  never  likely 
to  be  found  again  in  France. 

*  See  Lamartine.  Hist.  Girond.  Livre  zrii.,  I  hare  drawn  much  of  the 
eniuing  description  from  him. 


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THE  BATTLE  OF  VALMY.  633 

Serving  under  Kellerman  on  that  day  was  one  who  has  experi- 
enced^ perhaps  the  most  deeply  of  all  men^  the  changes  for  good 
and  for  evil  which  the  French  Revolution  has  produced.  He  who 
now,  in  his  second  exile,  bears  the  name  of  the  Count  de  Neuilly  in 
this  country,  and  who  lately  was  Loiiis  Philippe,  King  of  the  French, 
figured  in  me  French  lines  at  Valmy  as  a  young  and  gallant  officer, 
cool  and  sagacious  beyond  his  years,  and  trusted  accordingly  by 
Kellerman  and  Dumouriez  with  an  important  station  in  the  national 
army.  The  Due  de  Chartres  (the  title  ne  then  bore)  commanded  the 
French  right.  General  Valence  was  on  the  left,  and  Kellerman  him- 
self took  his  post  in  the  centre,  which  was  the  strength  and  key  of 
his  position. 

Contrary  to  the  expectations  of  both  friends  and  foes,  the  French 
infantry  held  their  ground  steadily  under  the  fire  of  the  Prussian 
guns,  which  thundered  on  them  n'om  La  Lune ;  and  their  own  ar- 
tillery replied  with  equal  spirit  and  greater  effect  on  the  denser 
masses  of  the  allied  army.  Thinking  that  the  Prussians  were 
slackening  in  their  fire,  Kellerman  formed  a  column  in  charging 
order,  and  dashed  down  into  the  valley  in  the  hopes  of  capturing 
some  of  the  nearest  guns  of  the  enemy.  A  masked  battery  opened 
its  fire  on  the  French  column,  and  drove  it  back  in  disorder,  Kel- 
lerman having  his  horse  shot  under  him,  and  being  with  difficulty 
carried  off*  by  his  men.  The  Prussian  columns  now  advanced  in 
turn.  The  French  artillerymen  began  to  waver  and  desert  their 
posts,  but  were  rallied  by  the  efforts  and  example  of  their  officers, 
and  Kellerman,  reorganising  the  line  of  his  infantry,  took  his  station 
in  the  ranks  on  foot,  and  called  out  to  his  men  to  let  the  enemy 
come  close  up,  and  then  to  charge  them  with  the  bayonet.  The 
troops  caught  the  enthusiasm  of  their  general,  and  a  cheerful  shout 
of  f^ive  la  nation,  taken  up  by  one  battalion  from  another,  pealed 
across  the  valley  to  the  assailants.  The  Prussians  hesitated  n*om  a 
charge  up  hiU  against  a  force  that  seemed  so  resolute  and  formi- 
dable ;  they  halteid  for  a  while  in  the  hollow,  and  iknen  slowly  re- 
treated up  their  own  side  of  the  vall^. 

Indignant  at  being  thus  repulsed  by  such  m  foe,  the  Kms  of 
Prussia  formed  the  fiower  of  his  men  in  person,  and,  riding  along 
the  column,  bitterly  reproached  them  with  letting  their  standard 
be  thus  humiliated.  Then  he  led  them  on  again  to  the  attack, 
marching  in  the  front  line,  and  seeing  his  staff  mowed  down  around 
him  by  the  deadly  fire  which  the  French  artillery  reopened.  But 
the  troops  sent  by  Dumouriez  were  now  co-operating  effectually 
with  Kellerman,  and  that  general's  own  men,  flashed  by  success, 
presented  a  firmer  front  than  ever.  Again  the  Prussians  retreated, 
leaving  eight  hundred  dead  behind,  and  at  nightfall  the  French  re- 
mained victors  on  the  heights  of  Valmy. 

All  hopes  of  crushing  Uie  Revolutionary  armies,  and  of  the  pro- 
menade to  Paris,  had  now  vanished,  though  Brunswick  lingered 
long  in  the  Argonne,  till  distress  and  sickness  wasted  away  his  once 
splendid  force,  and  finally  but  a  mere  wreck  of  it  recrossed  the 
frontier.  France,  meanwhile  felt  that  she  possessed  a  giant's 
strength,  and,  like  a  giant,  did  she  use  it.  Before  the  close  of  that 
year  all  Belgium  obeyed  the  National  Convention  at  Paris,  and  the 
Kings  of  Europe,  after  the  lapse  of  eighteen  centuries,  trembled 
once  more  before  a  conquering  military  Kepublic. 

VOL.   XXIII.  3  A 


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634 


THE  GERMAN'S  FATHERLAND. 

{De9  DeuUehen  Vai^rkmd.) 

SUXO  A8  THE   NATIONAL  HTMN   IN   ALL   THE   ESCBNT   MOVEMENTS  IN 
PRUSSIA  AND  OTHEB  PARTS  OF   GERMANY. 

<(  Einmiithig  sich  verbanden, '  das  Reich^  und  ihre  f  Untliche  Ehre,  an  der  Kur 
das  lUidies,  an  seinen  nnd  ihren  Rechten,  handhaben,  schutaen,  una  beschinnen 
su  woUen,  naoh  aller  ihrer  Macht  and  Kraft,  ohne  Gefahrde  wider  ledennann 
ohne  einige  Ausnahme.' " 

*'  They  united  with  one  mind,  'for  the  purpose  of  managing,  protecting,  and 
defending  the  empire  and  their  princely  honour,  in  the  Electorate  of  the  empire, 
and  in  all  its  and  their  jurisdictions  with  all  their  might  and  strength,  without 
fraud  against  e^ery  one  without  any  exception  whatsoever.*  " 

Resolution  qfthe  Attembiy  t(f  Retue,  I6th  Jufy,  1338. 

**  Was  ist  det  DmUaehen  VaierUmd^'—AmvuT  (1813). 

What  is  the  German's  Fatherland  ? 
Is 't  Preussenland  ?  is 't  Schwahenland  ? 
Where,  on  the  Rhine,  the  red  grape  gleams  ? 
Or  by  the  Belt  the  sea-mew  screams  ? 

Oh,  no  I  no  I  no ; 
His  Fatherland  is  greater  I     No  I 

What  is  the  German's  Fatherland  ? 
Is 't  Baierland  ?  is 't  Steierland  ? 
Or  where  the  Marsian  bullock  lies  ? 
Or  where  the  Marker's  sword  replies  ? 

Oh,  no  I  no  1  no  I 
His  Fatherland  is  greater  I     No  I 

What  is  the  German's  Fatherland  ? 
Is 't  Pommerland  ?     Westfalenland  ? 
Where  dunes  *  and  sandhills  shifdng  sweep  ? 
Or  Danube  thunders  to  the  deep? 

Oh,  no  I  no  I  no  I 
His  Fatherland  is  greater  I     No  I 

What  is  the  German's  Fatherland  ? 
Come  tell  me  where 's  that  mighty  land  I 


*  DUnen. 

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THE  German's  fatherland.       636 

Is't  Switzerland?  land  of  Tyrol? 
Land,  men,  I  love  with  all  my  soul ; 

But,  no  I  no  I  no  I 
His  Fatherland  is  greater  I     No ! 

What  is  the  German's  Fatherknd  ? 
Now  tell  me  where  *s  that  mighty  land  I 
Of  a  truth  it  must  he  Oesterreich, 
In  glory,  conquest  rich  alike  ? — 

Oh,  no  I  no  !  no  I 
His  Fatherland  is  greater  I     No  I 

What  is  the  German's  Fatherland  ? 
Come  name  at  last  that  mighty  land ! 
Far  as  the  Grerman  language  rings. 
Where'er  to  God  his  hymn  he  sings, 

That  land  is  his — that  land  divine  ! 
That  land,  stout  German,  call  it  thine  I 

That  is  the  German's  Fatherland, 
Where  oaths  are  sworn  hy  clasped  hand. 
Where  truth  and  trust  flash  from  each  eye, 
And  warm  in  hearts  love  likes  to  lie. 

That  is  his  land, — that  land  divine  ! 
That  land,  stout  German,  call  it  thine  ! 

That  is  the  German's  Fatherland  I 
Whence  Scorn  sweeps  out  all  strange  command, 
Where  "  false  "  and  "  foreign"  say  the  same,* 
And  ''  German"  means  the  heart's  strong  flame. 

That  land  is  his  I  land  proud  and  free ! 
That  land  all  Germany  shall  be  I 

That  land  all  Germany  shall  be  I 

Oh  God  I  from  heaven  look  down  on  thee ! 

And  give  us  thorough  German  soul 

To  love  thee  true,  entire,  and  whole. 

Then  shall  it  be,  then  shall  it  be  I 
That  land  all  Germany  shall  be! 

W. 


*  The  play  of  words  in  the  original  can  scarcely  be  rendered  in  English : 
*•*'  Wo  walsch  und  falsch  bat  gleichen  Klang." 


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636 
GOSSIP  FROM  PARIS.* 

BY  MRS.  PERCY  8INNBTT. 

Paris,  at  the  present  moment^  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  spots 
imaginable^  for  those  who  can  manage  to  forget  the  past  and  close 
their  eyes  to  the  future.  Spring  has  come  in,  in  her  most  splendid 
full  dress,  to  declare  for  the  republic.  The  air  is  embalmed  with 
flowers,  the  bayonets  wreathed  with  lilacs,  **  grim-visaged  war  has 
smoothed  his  wrinkled  front/'  and  the  bright  blue  sky  and  the  sun 
have  declared  themselves  en  permanence.  For  this  week  past  the 
houses  have  been  empty,  all  Paris  preferring  to  reside  alfresco  upon 
the  Boulevards ;  and  whatever  suffering  or  privation  may  be  hidden 
within  doors,  all  the  faces  one  meets  wear  a  holiday  aspect ;  people 
pocket  their  private  troubles,  cry,  "  begone,  dull  Care,"  and  come 
out  to  make  a  day  of  it,  and  enjoy  their  revolution — awhile  they  may. 
They  say  it's  nonsense  to  talk  of  civil  war,  for  nobody  could  bear  to 
run  the  chance  of  being  killed,  and  so  losing  his  place  at  the  next 
J^le;  just  as  at  the  theatres,  whatever  fierce  quarrels  may  spring 
up  between  the  acts,  the  heroes  concerned  take  care  to  command 
themselves  sufficiently  to  wait  for  the  dinouemenL 

This  is  our  security, — ^perhaps  our  only  one.  As  long  as  the 
audience  are  amused,  all  is  well,  for  woe  betide  us  if  they  begin  to 
yawn.  It  would  not  be  long  before  our  fraternal  embraces  would 
De  changed  into  a  fierce  grapple  for  life  or  death,  and  it  is  impos- 
sible, as  one  looks  around,  to  prevent  tlie  intrusion  of  some  ugly 
reminiscences  of  the  '*  Feast  of  Pikes,"  and  other  golden  days  of  the 
first  Revolution. 

You  know  that  Paris  has  not  yet  put  itself  to  much  expense  for 
its  revolutionary  toilette,  for  not  only  the  old  red  and  tricolored 
ribbons,  but  our  customs,  language,  and  ideas  have  been,  to  a  great 
extent,  borrowed,  provisionally,  from  the  year  '92.  We  have  pla- 
giarised wholesale  rrom  our  papas,  dressed  ourselves  out  in  all  their 
old  trumpery,  and  borrowed  alike  Phrygian  caps,  trees  of  liberty, 
and  financial  ruin.  This  is  the  second  representation  of  the  piece 
of  the  Sovereign  People,  but  we  have  not  been  able  to  afford  new 
dresses  and  decorations. 

The  admirers  of  curiosities  used  to  think  much  of  the  Gbbelin 
tapestry,  but  this  is  nothing  to  the  historical  tapestry  that  now  de- 
corates the  walls  of  Paris  in  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow.  Every 
corner  is  a  People's  Journal,  and  some  houses  exhibit  from  top  to 
bottom  confessions  of  political  faith.  You  are  called  on  to  stop, 
in  large  type,  at  every  two  or  three  paces,  and  an  incessant  lively 
conversation  is  carried  on  between  you  and  the  wall.  You  read 
perhaps  one  buDedn  concerning  the  health  of  the  republic,  that 
throws  you  into  a  dreadful  fright ;  but  a  few  yards  further  you  are 
reassured  again  by — *'  Citizens  !  Confidence  and  Courage.  Re- 
publican France  is  free,  is  happy,  will  be  great ! " 

Some  gentlemen,  anxious  to  recommend  themselves  to  electors, 
have  written  their  autobiography  all  along  the  ground  floors,  and 

*  Our  readen  will  please  to  observe,  that  in  speaking  of  Paris  we  answer  only 
for  the  passing  day.  We  can  only  hope  to  ^'  catdi  ere  she  change  this  Cynthia  of 
the  minute.** 


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GOSSIP  FROM   PARIS.  687 

doctors  in  want  of  practice  have  affected  to  offer  themselves  as  can- 
didates, to  remind  the  public  of  their  address* 

The  Champs  Elysees  are  in  the  occupation  of  an  army  of  mounte- 
banks, who  have  descended  upon  it  in  swarms,  like  the  locusts  on 
the  land  of  Egypt.  Hyenas  roar  from  Uieir  cages  under  Uie  trees, 
live  ffsh  jump  out  of  their  tubs  and  say  *^  papa,"  and  the  eternal 
giantess  offers  to  allow  all  the  grenadiers  in  the  universe  to  pass 
under  her  arm. 

As  evening  comes  on,  candles  sprout  out  of  the  pavement,  and 
musicians  by  the  side  of  the  candles,  old  harps  begin  to  promenade 
the  streets,  and  in  coming  out  of  a  dark  passage  you  may  chance  to 
tumble  over  a  piano  which  has  taken  up  its  position  there,  while, 
from  all  sides,  your  ears  are  regaled  with  melodies,  <' married  to 
immortal  verse,"  in  which  tyrants  and  chains  and  brandished  swords 
are  what  actors  call  "  stock  properties." 

One  of  the  most  favourite  entertainments,  however,  is  to  be  found 
in  an  old  coach  transformed  into  a  magic  lantern,  where  may  be 
seen  "Hell"  and  ** Paradise;"  in  the  former  Louis  Philippe  and 
Ouizot  are  most  satisfactorily  deposited  in  the  flames ;  the  latter,  in 
a  sky  hideously  blue,  rejoices  in  the  presence  of  Julius  Cssar, 
Napoleon,  and  General  Lamaorciere. 

As  for  the  Pont  des  Arts,  it  really  seems  as  if,  since  the  toll  has 
been  taken  off*,  all  Paris  had  done  nothing  but  walk  backwards  and 
forwards  over  it  incessantly,  though  some  passengers  have  effected 
a  lodgment ;  for  you  have  to  run  the  gauntlet  between  Savoyards 
with  their  marmots,  rows  of  gentlemen  who  deal  in  walking  sticks, 
and  beggars  with  every  description  of  deformity,  and  every  **  creep- 
ing thing"  that  moves  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  including  a  ter. 
rible  looking  feUow  without  legs,  who  moves  himself  along  on  a 
piece  of  board. 

Journalism  of  course  goes  on  at  an  awful  rate,  some  ''  Citizens" 
writing  whole  papers  **  out  of  their  own  heads,"  as  children  say, 
such  as  the  Journal  des  Honnites  Gens,  the  Ami  du  Peuple,  &c. 
The  political  fever  has  also  seized  on  the  fair  sex,  and  gives  utter- 
ance to  its  delirium  in  the  Foix  des  Femmes ;  Oeorge  Sand  has  her 
own  review,  the  Cause  du  PeupU,  and  under  the  porch  of  St  Ger- 
main I'Auxerrois,  an  old  lady  sits  offering  the  Eve  Nouvelle.  Pamph- 
lets descend  in  showers,  but  one  has  scarcely  time  to  read  even  their 
titles.  Some  contain  good  advice  to  the  government ;  others,  poems 
smelling  of  the  gunpowder  of  the  barricades. 

At  the  comer  of  one  of  the  bridges,  the  eye  is  caught  by  a  flaming 
placard  of  a  *'  whole,  true,  and  particular  account"  of  the  exchange 
of  a  voung  lady  of  the  highest  rank  for  a  60^  of  ike  vilest  condition,'^ 
videlicet,  Louis  Philippe.  This  pamphlet,  we  are  told,  was  destroyed 
with  the  greatest  fury  by  the  agents  of  the  late  king,  for  in  it  the 
whole  story  of  his  life  is  '*  completely  unmasked,"  and  all  the  facts 
are  supported  by  the  most  solid  proofs  ''  written  in  characters  of 
fire !"  Another  of  the  same  species  is  the  amours  of  Louis  Philippe 
with  Madame  Stephanie  Durrest  de  Genlin.  The  correspondence 
of  Louis  Philippe  and  Abd-el-Kader,  in  which  the  crimes  of  Guizol 
are  unveiled ;  and  another,  the  resurrection  of  the  Duke  de  Praslin, 
and  his  interview  with  the  ex-royal  family  in  London,  *'all  for  the 
small  charge  of  one  halfpenny."  The  eruption  of  this  mud  volcano  is, 
however,  less  active  than  during  the  earlier  days  of  the  revolution. 


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638  GOSSIP  FROM   PARIS. 

The  theatres  can,  I  fear,  make  but  wry  faces  at  the  grand  national 
spectacle,  which  has  left  them  with  empty  benches,  and  provided 
so  many  rival  amusements ;  they  cannot  maintain  their  ground 
against  the  clubs,  where  a  more  exciting  evening's  entertainment  is 
to  be  had  for  less  monev*  and  in  many  of  which  one  pays  four  sous 
(the  price  of  a  quadrille  at  the  guinguHtes)  for  liberty  to  make  a 
speecn.  It  would  be  better,  however,  to  pay  one's  four  sous  for  a 
listener,  if  such  a  thing  could  be  found.  Generally  the  whole  as* 
sembly  talks  at  once,  and  the  president's  office  is  reduced  to  that  of 
ringing  his  bell  without  ceasing.  He  has  been  compared  to  the 
hare's  foot,  which  we  see  suspended  by  a  string  at  the  door  of  many 
apartments  in  Paris,  as  a  simple  and  elegant  substitute  for  a  belli 
handle. 

One  scene,  witnessed  a  few  days  ago  on  the  Boulevard  Beaumar- 
chais,  is  too  remarkable  to  be  passed  over.  It  was  the  eve  of  the 
file  of  St.  Joseph,  the  patron  saint  of  the  carpenters.  At  a  certain 
comer,  a  great  fire  had  been  kindled  of  sawdust  and  shavings,  round 
which  was  assembled  a  crowd,  seemingly  of  ''the  trade,"  who  were 
engaged,  amidst  acclamations  of  joy,  in  burning  a  bust.  It  was  not 
possible  to  obtain  a  distinct  view  of  the  features  of  the  personage 
who  had  the  honour  of  figuring  in  this  aulo-da-fe  of  the  carpenters, 
but  conjectures  as  to  who  it  might  be  were  thrown  out  in  abundance 
by  the  passers-by. 

*'  Oood  heavens !"  exclaimed  some,  in  a  tone  of  consternation,  "  in 
what  a  time  do  we  live !  Here  is  '95  over  again.  The  workmen 
arc  burning  M.  Ouisot  in  effigy." — "  No,  it  is  M.  Duchatel, — I  saw 
the  face  !*' — ^'  No,  it  is  the  bust  of  the  organization  of  labour." 

These  and  many  other  guesses  were  hazarded,  and  many  were  of 
opinion  that  the  people  were  burning  in  effigy  a  personification  of  the 
National  Guard.  '*  Ah,  if  his  poor  wife  were  to  pass  by,"  said  a 
spectator,  pointing  to  the  blackened  bust,  **  it  would  be  enough  to 
kill  her." — "  And  his  children,  too,"  said  another  tender-hearted 
passenger,  in  a  pathetic  tone. 

At  length,  one  who  had  been  looking  on  in  silence,  determined  to 
discover  what  unfortunate  contemporary  had  thus  incurred  the  dis- 
pleasure of  the  sovereign  people,  managed  to  force  his  way  into  the 
centre  of  the  group.  But  the  features  of  the  bust  were  by  this  time 
quite  unrecognisable.  Searching  out,  therefore,  among  the  execu- 
tioners of  the  decree  of  the  Mob  Majesty,  for  the  one  whose  counte* 
nance  bespoke  the  most  afiable  and  condescending  temper,  he  ven« 
tured  to  ask  the  name  of  him  who  had  been  thus  justly  sacrificed,* 
the  assumption  that  the  sentence  was  just,  though  he  md  not  know 
on  whom,  showed  his  courtier-like  skul,  and  was  rewarded  accord- 
ingly. He  obtained  an  answer.  It  was  the  bust  of— will  anybody 
guess  ? — I  am  afraid  you  must  give  it  up.  It  was  the  bust  of  Vol- 
taire ! ! !  Shall  I  leave  your  mouths  open  with  astonishment  till 
next  month,  or  shall  I  give  an  explanation.  It  was  not  for  his 
enmity  to  Christianity  that  he  was  condemned,  but  for  an  insult 
offered  in  a  certain  couplet*  to  the  trade  of  a  carpenter,  which,  in 
his  own  day,  as  carpenters  did  not  then  read,  had  escaped  detec- 

*  The  couplet  oocutb  in  the  EjAtre  a  Uranie^  where,  speaking  of  the  Saviour, 
he  says, 

^  Long  temps  vil  ouvrier,  un  rabot  i  la  main, 
Set  beaux  jours  sont  perdus  dans  ce  lache  exercise.** 


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THE   PRAISES   OF  COLONOS. 


639 


tion,  but  the  schoolmaster  has  been  abroad,  and  a  youns  professor 
of  the  plane  had  just  found  him  out.  Singular  that  for  this  offence 
vengeance  should  have  overtaken  him  afler  the  lapse  of  a  century. 
His  attacks  on  throne  and  altar,  his  cold  sneers  at  everything  beau- 
tiful and  sacred,  mi^ht  be  forgiven  ;  but  an  affront  to  the  carpenters, 
a  wound  to  our  vamty,  "  Jamais  !  Jamais  !*' 


THE  PRAISES  OF  COLONOS. 
EStinrw,  lift,  rmtii  ;t;«;(«f.~(EDIP.  CoL.  668*719. 


Welcome,  Stranger!  thou  hast  come 
To  the  gods'  well-fa\rour*d  home, 
Where  Colonos  rears  on  high 
Its  chalky  cliffs  unto  the  sky  ; 
Listen,  stranger,  and  I  '11  tell 
All  the  joys  uat  here  do  dwell ! 

II. 
Here  are  horses,  that  with  pride 
E'en  a  king  would  deign  to  ride ; 
Here  the  sweet-voiced  nightingales 
Softly  tell  their  mournful  tales ; 
Where  the  purple  ivy's  bloom 
Shrouds  the  vale  in  twilight  gloom  ! 


Here  *s  the  leafy,  pathless  grove, 
Which  the  Wine-god  deigns  to  love, 
Where  the  mighty  trees  have  made 
Oloomy  aisles  of  unpieroed  *  shade, 
Where  the  tempest's  raginjg  breath 
Stirs  not  e*en  a  leaf  in  death.t 


Here,  within  the  leafy  halls 

Roam  the  joyous  Bacchanals ; 

The  Nysian  nymphs,  who  from  the  first 

Never  left  the  Ood  they  nnrst. 

But  now  with  laugh  and  merry  stir. 

Crowd  around  the  Reveller  ! 


Here,  enrich*d  by  heavenly  dew, 
The  golden  crocus  bursa  to  view. 
And  the  sweet  narcissus  throws 
All  around  its  clustering  shows; 
The  holy  flow*r  which  erst,  *tis  said, 
Wreathed  a  mighty  goddess*  head. 

VI, 

Here,  the  sleepless  fountains  ever 
Stream  into  Cephissus*  river ; 
UtUv,  Coll.,  Durham* 


Earth  enriching  in  their  flow, 
Nomad-like,  they  wand*ring  gOy 
Loved  by  all  the  Muses  mighty 
And  by  gold>rein'd  Aphrodite. 

VII. 

Here,  I  've  heard,  too,  is  a  tree. 
Such  as  Asia  ne'^er  did  see, 
Unplanted  by  man*s  hand,  the  fear 
Of  friendly  and  of  hostile  spear : 
For  *tis  here  the  olive  grows. 
In  the  land  where  first  it  rose ! 


Here,  shall  neither  young  nor  old 
£*er  be  impiously  bold 
To  cut  down  the  sacred  grove. 
For  'tis  watchM  by  Mosian  Jore, 
And  the  great  Minerva  too. 
With  her  eyes  of  melting  blue  I 

IX. 

Here,  (and  this  I  reckon  most 
For  the  Mother- City's  boastO 
Here,  'twas  first  the  Ocean  King 
Bade  the  stately  steed  to  spring. 
And  with  bits  did  curb  him  then. 
To  be  useful  unto  men ! 


Thus  our  city '%  reached  the  height 
Where  true  Glory  sheds  her  light : 
She  's  the  nurse  of  chivalry. 
And  the  mistress  of  the  sea  ; 
And  *tis  thou,  O  Saturn's  son, 
That  this  mighty  work  hast  done  ! 

XI. 

Dashinff  through  the  briny  sea, 
The  tall  ship  bounds  on  wondrously. 
Tracking  through  the  waste  of  waters 
Nereus*  hundred-footed  daughters : 
For  our  King  is  Saturn's  son  ! 
Stranger,  now  my  tale  is  done  ! 

CUTHBERT  BeDE. 


ahiXmv. — Where  the  unpUrced  shade 

Imbrown'd  the  noontide  bowers. — Miltok. 
No  stir  of  air  was  there  ; 
Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 
Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass. 
But  where  the  dead  leaf  feP,  there  did  it  L'e.~ Keats. 


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640 


THE  DANISH  SEAMAN'S  -SONG. 

FEOM   THE   DAKI8H. 

<«  Kong  ChruHan  gtod  ved  fnftUn  Mast^^  &c Ewald. 

Kino  Christian  stood  by  the  high  mast, 

In  cloud  and  smoke^ — 
With  his  axe  he  hammer'd  away  so  fast. 
That  helm  and  skull  around  he  cast — 
Sunk  every  foeman's  yard  and  mast. 

In  cloud  and  smoke. 
"  Fly !"  cried  he,  "  fly  1  who  now  fly  can  ! 
Who  stands  for  Denmark's  Christian  I 
In  fight  and  smoke  ?" 

Niels  Juel,  to  storm  and  cry  gave  heed — 

"  Now  is  the  hour  I" 
And  hoisted  up  the  flag  blood-red, 
Flew  blow  on  blow — ^fell  head  on  head — 
As  he  shouted  through  the  storm,  "  Give  heed  I 

Now  is  the  hour  I 
Fly  I "  cried  he,  "  fly  I  who  safety  seek  I 
Who  stands  for  Denmark's  Juel  now  speak 

In  fight  this  hour  I  " 

O  North  Sea !  how  our  lightnings  rend 

Thy  murky  sky  I— 
There  in  thy  lap  chiefs  seek  their  end — 
For  thence  their  shafts  death — terror  send, 
— Shouts  through  the  battle  break,  and  rend 

Thy  murky  sky  I 
From  Denmark  flames  thy  **  thunder-shield  ;** 
Then  cast  thyself  on  heaven  and  yield  I — 

Or  fly  I 

Thou  Danish  road  to  fame  and  power. 

Thou  gloomy  wave  I 
Oh,  take  thy  friend,  who  ne'er  will  cower, 
But  danger  dares,  where*er  it  lower, 
As  proud  as  thou,  in  thy  storm-pow^r, 

Thou  gloomy  wave  1 
And  quick  through  shouts  of  joy  and  woe. 
And  fight  and  victory,  bear  me  to 

My  grave  I  W. 


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INDEX 
TO    THE   TWENTY-THIRD   VOLUME. 


Abraham  Elder's  Lucky  Grocer,  31. 
Addison's  (H.  R.)  Postman,  20U 
AUwal  and  Sir  Hany  Smith,  by  Charles 

Whitehead,  317. 
Archduke  Charles  (Nanradve  of  the  Wreck 

of  the),  by  a  Naval  Officer,  392. 
*'  Are  there  those  who  read  the  Fntnre  1" 

A  Tissue  of  Strange  Coinddenoes,  by 

the  Author  of  <*  Experiences  of  a  Gaol 

Chaplain,"*  340«  465. 

B. 

Banks*s  (G.  Linneus)  God  will  befriend 
the  Right,  589. 

Battles  (The  Dedsive)  of  the  World,  by 
Professor  Creasy.  No.  I.  Marathon, 
54 ;  No.  II.  Defeat  of  the  Athenians 
at  Syracuse,  125 ;  No.  111.  The  Me- 
taurus,  250  ;  No.  IV.  Arminius's  Vic- 
tory over  the  Roman  Legioos  under 
Varus,  384;  No.  V.  The  BatUe  of 
Tours,  624 ;  No.  VI.  The  Battle  of 
Valmy,  623. 

Beethoven  (Memoir  of),  by  Miss  Thoma- 
sina  Ross,  115. 

Blue  Beard  (Origin  of  the  Story  of),  by 
Dr.  W.  C.  Taylor,  136. 

Boleyn  (Anne)  and  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt, 
233. 

Brooke  (Rajah)  Visit  to  his  Highness  at 
Sarawak,  by  Peter  M'Quhae,  65. 

Burton's  (W.  E.^  Two  Pigs,  a  Swinish 
Colloqay,  21o;  Yankee  amongst  the 
Mermaids,  303. 

By  the  clear  silver  tones  of  thy  heavenly 
voice,  132* 

C. 

C.  A.  M.  W.'s  What  can  Sorrow  dol 
191 ;  Isles  of  the  Blest,  455. 

Captain  Spike ;  or,  the  Islets  of  the  Gulf, 
by  J.  Fenimore  Cooper,  77, 193^  375. 

Career  of  the  Hero  of  Acre,  74. 


Chspters  (Some)  of  the  Life  of  an  Old 
Politician,  515. 

Charles  Edward  Stuart ;  or,  Vicissitudes 
in  the  Life  of  a  Royal  Exile,  492. 

Child  ci  Genius  (The),  by  Alfred  Crow- 
quill,  249. 

Christmas  Festivities  at  Rome)  by  Mrs. 
Veusj  Sinnett,  247. 

Cooper's  (J.  F.)  Captain  Spike ;  or,  The 
Isleto  of  the  Gulf,  77,  193,  375. 

Costello's  (Miss)  Summer  Sketches  in 
Svritzerland,  150, 258. 

Country  Towns  and  Inns  of  France,  by  J. 
Marvel,  11, 143. 

Creasy*s  (Professor)  Six  Decisive  Battles 
of  the  World,  No.  I.  Marathon,  54 ; 
No.  II.  Defeat  of  the  Athenians  at 
Syracuse,  125 ;  No.  III.  The  Metaurus, 
250;  No.  IV.  Arminius's  Victory  over 
the  Roman  Legion  under  Varus,  384  ; 
No.  V.  The  BatUe  of  Tours,  524  ;  No. 
VI.  The  BatUe  of  Valmy,  623. 

Crowquill*s  (Alfred)  Search  after  Truth 
9;  Love's  Desertion,  a  melancholy 
Fact,  124;  Child  of  Genius,  249; 
Return  of  the  Birds,  374 ;  Three  Nuns, 
448 ;  Faiiy  Cup,  582. 

Cruikshank*s  (Percy)  St  Georse  and  the 
Dragon :  The  True  Tale,  divested  oi 
its  Traditional  Fibs;  (a  good  way) 
from  the  Gtrman^  311. 

Curling's  (H.)  Ramble  along  the  Old 
Kentish  Road  from  Canterbury  to  Lon- 
don, 111,  266. 

Cuthbert  Bede's  Reverie  of  Love,  110 ; 
The  Water-Lily,.  114 ;  Praises  of  Co- 
lonos,  689. 

D. 

Danish  Seaman's  Song,  640. 
Difficulties  in  a  Tour  to  Wiesbaden,  by 

the  Author  of  •«  Paddiana,"  185. 
D*Israe1i  (The  late  Isaac)  and  the  Genius 

of  Judaism,  219. 
Donizetti  (Gaetano),  537. 


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642 


INDEX. 


E, 

Eighteenth  Ceotary  (Memoirt  and  Anec- 
dotes of ),  559. 

£lUot*t(Mri.  Frank)  Mn.  Alfred  Augustoi 
PotU,  a  Tale  of  the  InBuenza,  289. 

Emmett  (Robert)  and  Arthur  Aylmer; 
or,  Dublin  in  1803,  by  W.  H.  Maxwell, 
470,  551. 

Eventful  Days  (The)  of  February  1848  In 
Paris,  by  an  American  Lady,  408. 

F. 

Fair  Agnes  (The  Legend  oQ.  from  the 

Danish,  535. 
Fairy  Cup  (The),  by  Alfred  Crowquill, 

Fatherland  (The  German's),  634. 
Febraaiy,  1848,  in  Paris  (The  Eventful 

Days  oO*  ^  <a  American  Lad^,  408. 
FMes  at  Madrid.    The  Montpensier  Mai^ 

riage,  44. 
F^te  (A)  Champ^tre  in  Constantinople^ 

by  Mrs.  Percy  Sionett,  121. 
France  and  her  National  Assemblies,  by 

James  Ward,  615. 
French  Revolution  (Scenes  from  the  last)) 

by  the  Fllnaur  in  Paris,  422. 


German's  (The)  Fatherland,  634. 

God  will  befriend  the  Right,  by  G.  Lin- 

neus  Banks,  589. 
Gossip  from  Paris,  by  Mrs.  Percy  Sinnett, 

Government  Plan  for  the  Defence  of  the 
CouDtiT,  by  J.  A.  St.  John,  89. 

Gray  (Characteristics  of  the  Poet),  by 
Edward  Jesse,  133. 

Greensleeves's  She 's  Gone  to  Bath,  605. 

Guizot  (The  Career  oO,  by  James  Ward, 
435. 

H. 

Hardinge  (Lord)  and  the  Recent  Victories 
in  India,  by  Dr.  W.  C.  Taylor,  1. 

Heiress  (The)  of  Budowa,  174. 

Hospital  (The)  of  the  San  Spirito  at  Rome. 
A  Narrative  of  Facts,  by  £.  V.  Rippin- 
gille,477. 


1  have  beard  of  blessed  isles,  by  C.  A.  M. 

W.,  455. 
I  saw  him  sitting  on  the  dark  way-side, 

by  Alfred  Crowquill,  249. 
Isles  of  the  blest  (The),  by  C.  A.  M.  W., 

455. 
It  fell  on  a  Sunday  morning's  dawn,  by 

E.  K.,  246. 
It  is  the  sound  raised  by  the  sweeping  of 

an  Angers  wing,  by  W.  R.  C,  634. 


J. 

Jesse^k  (E.)  Characteristic*  of  the  Poet 
Gray,  133. 

K. 

Kenealy's  (C.)  Birth-day  Dream,  88. 
King  Mob,  by  Mrs.  Romer.  325. 
Kirdjali,  the  Bnlearian  Bandit,  from  the 

Russian  of  Pushkin,  by  Thomas  Shaw, 

337. 


Legend  (The)  of  Fait  Agnes,  from  the 
Danish  of  Ochlenschliiger,  535. 

L.  E.  L.  (Biographical  Sketch  bQ,  532. 

Literary  Notices: — Bohn*s  Standard  Li- 
brary; Illustrations  of  Instioct,  bjr 
Jonathan  Couch ;  Observations  in  Na- 
tural History,  by  the  Rev.  Leonard 
Jenyos,  323. 

Literary  Suttstics  of  France  lor  Fifteen 
Years.  456. 

Levis  Philippe  (Career  of ,  as  a  Sove- 
reign),  590. 

Love's  Desertion ;  a  Melaneholy  Fact,  by 
Alfred  CrowquUl,  124. 

Love  was  bom  one  joyoos  evening,  by 
Alfred  Crowouill,  124. 

Lowenstein's  (Prince),  Notes  of  an  Ex- 
cursion from  Lisbon  to  Andalusia,  and 
to  the  Coast  of  Morocco,  568. 

Lucky  Grocer  (The))  by  Abraham  Elder, 
31. 

M. 

M«Quhae's  (Captain,  R.  N.)  Visit  to  his 

Highness  Raiah  Brooke,  at  Sarawak, 

65. 
Marvel's  Country  Towns   and   Inns  of 

Fraoc^  11, 143;  Pipe  with  the  Dutch- 
men, 226.  417. 
Masiniello  (Rise  and  Fall  of),  by  the 

Author  of  ■'The  Ueiieasof  Bodowa,*' 

352. 
MaaweH's  (W.  H.)  Robert  Emmett  and 

Arthur  Aylmer ;  or,  Dublin  in   1803, 

470,  551. 
Memoirs  and  Anecdotes  of  the  Eighteenth 

Century,  559. 
Mettemich  (Prince).  431. 
Minstrel's  Curae  (Tbe).froro  Uhland,  321. 
Mrs.  Alfred  Augustus  Potts;  a  Tale  of 

the  Influenxa,  by  Mrs.  Fraak  Elliot, 

289. 
My  Birth-day  Dream,  by  E.  Kenealy,  88. 

N. 

Napoleon  (The  Two  Funerals  oQ,  by  Ro« 
bert  Postans,  270. 

New  Year's  Eve,  fVom  the  German  of 
Richter,  by  H.  J.  WhitKng,  73. 

Notes  of  an  Excursion  from  Lisbon  to 
Andalusia,  and  to  the  Coast  of  Moroc- 
co, by  Prince  Lowenstein,  668. 


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INDEX. 


643 


o. 

Oh!    that   such    bliss  were   mine!    by 

Cuthbert  Bede,  110. 
Old  Man  (The)  and  his  Ouests,  by  H.  J. 

WhiUing.  202. 
Old  Man's  (An)  Recollections  of  the 

Pastoral  Cantons  of  Switzerland »  edited 

by  Mrs.  Percy  Sinnett,  25,  366. 

P. 

Para  ;  or,  Scenes  and  Adventures  on  the 
Banks  of  the  Amazon,  by  J.  E.  Waneo, 
17,159.239.347.484. 

Pipe  (A)  with  the  Dutchmen,  by  J.  Mar- 
vel, 226,  417. 

Politician  (Chapters  in  the  Life  of  an 
Old),  515. 

Postans*  (Robert)  Two  Funerals  of  Na- 
poleon. 270 ;  Rattery  Brown ;  or,  The 
Privateer's  Carousal,  575. 

Postman  (The),  by  H.  R.  Addison,  201. 

Praises  (The)  of  Colonos,  by  Cuthbert 
Bode,  639. 

R. 

Ramble  (A)  along  the  Old  Kentish  Road 
from  Canterbury  to  London,  by  Heniy 
Curling,  111,264. 

Rattery  Brown ;  or,  The  Privateer's  Ca- 
rousal, by  Robert  Postans,  575. 

Republican  Clubs  in  Paris  (April,  1848), 
by  the  Flftneur  in  Paris,  505. 

Republican  Manners,  by  the  Fl&neur  io 
Paris.  542. 

Return  of  the  Birds  (The),  by  Alfred 
Crowquill,  374. 

Reverie  of  Love,  by  Cuthbert  Bede,  110. 

Riopingille's  (E.  V.)  Hospital  of  the  San 
Spirito  at  Rome.  A  Narrative  of  FacU. 
477. 

Romer's  (Mrs.)  King  Mob,  325. 

Ross's  (Miss  Thomasina)  Memoir  of 
Beethoven,  1 15. 

S. 
St.  George  and  the  Draeon.    The  True 

Tale,  divested  of  iu  Traditional  Fibs 

(a  good  way)  from  the   German,   by 

Percy  Cruiksbank.  311. 
St.  John's  (J.  A.)  Government  Plan  for 

the  Defence  of  the  Country,  89. 
Savile's  (Hon.  C.  S.)  Journey  from  Shi- 

raz  to  the  Persian  Gulf,  595. 
Search    after   Truth    (The),    by    Alfred 

Crowquill.  9. 
Shakspeare    Birth-house    (Hoax  of  the) 

and  Relic  Trade  at  Stratford-on-Avon, 

by  a  Warwickshire  Man,  279, 
Shaw*s  (Thomas)  Kirdjili,  the  Bulgarian 

Bandit,  from  the  Russian  of  Pushkin, 

337. 
She's  gone  to  Bath,  by  Greensleeves,605. 


Shiraz  (Journey  from)  to  the  Persian 
Gulf,  by  the  Hon.  C.  S.  Savile,  595. 

Sinnett^s  (Mrs.)  Old  Man's  Recollections 
of  the  Pastoral  Cantons  of  Switzerland, 
25,  366 ;  Fdte  Champ^tre  at  Constan- 
tinople, 121  ;  Christmas  Festivities  at 
Rome,  247;  Literary  Statistics  of 
France,  456 ;  Gossip  from  Paris,  634. 

Sir  Magnus  and  the  Sea- Witch,  by  E.  K., 
246. 

Smith's  (Sir  Sidney)  Career  of,  74. 

Switzerland  (Summer  Sketches  in),  by 
Miss  Costello,  150, 258. 


Taylor's  (Dr.  W.  C.)  Loid  Hardinge,  and 
the  recent  Victories  in  India.  1.  Ori- 
gin of  the  Story  of  Blue  Beard,  136; 
The  late  Isaac  D'Israeli,  Esq.,  and  the 
Genius  of  Judaism,  219. 

The  earth  lay  dreamins:,  by  Cuthbert 
Bede,  114. 

The  golden  Julian  morn  was  gleamine. 
by  E.  Kenealy,  88. 

There  stood  in  ancient  times,  321. 

They  return,  they  return,  with  their  plum- 
age  so  gay,  by  Alfred  Crowquill,  374. 

Three  Nuns  (llie),  by  Alfred  Crowquill, 
448. 

Two  Pigs  (The),  a  Swinish  Colloquy,  by 
W.  E.  Burton,  216. 

V. 

Visit  (A)  to  the  '•  Haunts"  of  a  Poetess, 
b^  the  Author  of  "  Paddiana,"  102. 

Visits.  Dinners,  and  Evenings  at  the  Quai 
D'Orsay,  and  at  Neuilly,  297. 

W. 

Wards  (James)  France  and  her  National 

Assemblies,  615. 
Warren's  (J.  E.)  Para;  or.  Scenes  and 

Adventures  on  the  Banks  of  the  Ama- 
zon. 17.159,239,347.484. 
Water-Lily  (The),  by  Cuthbert  Bede,  114. 
Welcome,  sweet  May !  514. 
What  can  Sorrow  do  1  by  C.  A.  M.  W,. 

191. 
What  is  a  Sigh?  534. 
What  TomPriogle  did  with  a  £100  Note. 

167. 
Whitehead's  (Charles)  Aliwal    and    Sir 

Harry  Smith,  3 17. 
WbiUing's  (H.  J.)  New  Year's  Eve,  from 

the  German  of  Richter,  73 ;  Old  Man 

and  his  GuesU,  203. 
Wreck  of  the  Archduke  Charles  (Narra- 

tive  of  the),  by  a  Naval  Officer.  392. 

Y. 

Yankee  (The)  amongst  the  Mermaids.  A 
Yarn,  by  a  Cape  Codder,  303. 


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